MODERN LITERATURE 

FOR 

ORAL INTERPRETATION 



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MODERN LITERATURE 

FOR 

ORAL INTERPRETATION 



MODERN LITERATURE 

FOR 

ORAL INTERPRETATION 

PRACTICE BOOK FOR VOCAL EXPRESSION 



BY 

GERTRUDE E. JOHNSON 

Assistant Professor in the department of Speech 

Education in the University of Wisconsin 

Author of "Choosing a Play" 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1920 






Copyright, 1920, by 
The Centuby Co. 



7c? 21 I 



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g)C!.A576522 



TO 

THOSE FRIENDS AND STUDENTS 

WHOSE SYMPATHY, INTEREST, AND 

APPRECIATION HAVE MADE 

MY WORK POSSIBLE 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Thanks are due to the following publishers, editors, and 
individual owners of copyrights for their kind permission to 
include selections from their works as indicated below. I 
wish to thank also the several authors who have assisted me 
with kindly words and appreciation. 

To Bobbs-Merrill Co. and the author for "Part Panther or 
Something," by Booth Tarkington. 

To Boni & Liveright for selections from "Fairy Tales," by 
Oscar Wilde. 

To Barse & Hopkins, New York City, for selections from 
"The Spell of the Yukon" and "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man," 
by Robert W. Service, author of "Ballads of a Ckeechako." 

To the Century Co. for "The Ritual," by Wm. Rose Benet; 
"Questions" and "The Mystic," by Cale Young Roice; "Greetings 
for Two," by J. W. Foley; "The Party at Crogan's," by Florence 
G. Boyce ; "The Perfect One," by Laurence Housman ; "A Min- 
uet," by Louis N. Parker; selection from "Barnabetta," by Helen 
R. Martin. 

To Curtis Publishing Co. and to the author for "With the 
Tide," by Edith Wharton. 

To Geo. H. Doran Co. for selection from "Things As They 
Are," by Berton Braley (copyright, 1916). 

To Doubleday, Page & Co. for selection from "Whirligigs," by 
0. Henry (copyright, 1910). 

To E. P. Dutton & Co. for selections from "Poems on Several 
Occasions," by Austin Dobson (copyright, 1889). 

To Dodd, Mead & Co. for selection from "Under the Trees and 
Elsewhere," by Hamilton Wright Mabie (copyright, 1891). 

To Forbes & Co. for selections by Nixon Waterman. 

To Harper & Bros, for selection from "Van Bibber and Others," 
by Richard Harding Davis (copyright, 1892, by Harper & Bros.; 
copyright, 1920, by Mrs. Richard Harding Davis). 



viii Acknowledgments 

To "Harper's Magazine" and to the authors, for "The Con- 
version of Johnny Harrington," by Elizabeth Jordan (copyright, 
1917) ; "For Love of Mary Ellen," by Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd 
(copyright, 1912); "Mr. Bush's Kindergarten Christmas" and 
"The Kirby Wedding," by Hayden Carruth (copyright). 

To Henry Holt & Co. for selection from "Mountain Interval," 
by Robert Frost (copyright, 1916) ; for selection from "Poems of 
Earth's Meaning," by Richard Burton (copyright, 1918). 

To Little, Brown & Co. for selections from "Dreams," by Olive 
Schreiner, and "Sweet is Tepperary," by Dennis A. McCarthy 
(copyrighted by Little, Brown & Co.). 

To Lothrop, Lee & Shepherd Co. for selection from "Drunk in 
June," by Richard Burton. 

To Macmillan Co. for selections, reprinted by permission, from 
"Myself And I," by Fannie Stearns Davis (copyright, 1913) ; 
"Mothers to Men," b} 7 Zona Gale; "He Knew Lincoln," by Ida 
M. Tarbell; "The King of Boyville," by William Allen White; 
"A Dome of Many Colored Glass," by Amy Lowell. 

To David McKay Co. for selections from "Songs From Lein- 
ster," by W. M. Letts. 

To The Open Court Co. for fables from "iEsop and Hyssop," 
by William Ellery Leonard. 

To Charles Scribner's Sons for selections by Henry Van Dyke, 
Robert Louis Stevenson, Eugene Field, J. G. Holland, and Thomas 
Nelson Page. 

To Small, Maynard & Co. for selection from "The Poet, The 
Fool, and The Faeries," by Madison Cawein (copyright, 1912). 

To Frederick A. Stokes Co. for selections from "Grenstone 
Poems," by Witter Bynner (copyright, 1917). 

To Miss Harriet Monroe, editor of "Poetry: A Magazine of 
Verse," for the use of "Indian Summer," by Wm. Ellery Leonard. 

To the following authors for permission to use their material: 
Ina Coolbrith, Edna Ferber, Arthur Hopkins, Leon Huhner, 
Marjorie Kinnan, Constance Mackay, Arthur Stringer, Mrs. 
Wilson Woodrow; to Robert Underwood Johnson for "The Little 
Room of Dreams" from "Collected Poems" (Yale University Press, 
New Haven). To Edwin Markham for selections from "Lincoln, 
and Other Poems" (copyright, Edwin Markham, published by 
Doubleday, Page & Co.). Mary Stewart Cutting, George Wood- 
ruff Johnston, Zona Gale, Amy Lowell, Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd, 
William Ellery Leonard, Alfred Kreymborg, Dora Sigerson. 



Acknowledgment s ix 

To the following magazines for permission to reprint : 

"American Magazine/' for "His Place in the Line," by Marion 
Hill; "A Little Change for Edward," by Mary Stewart "Cutting; 
"Underneath the Highcut Vest/' by Edna Ferber. 

"Cosmopolitan Magazine," for "The World's Sublimes! Spec- 
tacle" (copyright, Sept., 1915, by The International Magazine 
Co.). 

To "Everybody's Magazine," for "The Battle of Pankow," by 
Geo. W. Johnston. 

To "Lippincott's Magazine/' for "The Legacy," by J. J. Bell; 
"Where There's a Will," by Ellis Parker Butler; "When Ma 
Rogers Broke Loose," by Hicks Bates Broderson. 

To the "Playboy Magazine," for "Pebble Song and Waterfall," 
by Alfred Kreymborg. 

To the "Smart Set Magazine," for "The Wanderer's Litany," 
by Arthur Stringer; "The Universal Impulse," by Mrs. Wilson 
Woodrow. 

To the "Theater Arts Magazine/' for "Moonshine," by Arthur 
Hopkins. 

To the estate of Marion Hill for "His Place in the Line," by 
Marion Hill. 



PREFACE 

Though obliged to omit many desired selections because 
of copyright restrictions, the author has endeavored to 
gather, largely such material as may be found useful for 
class purposes, study and practise, in earlier work in Ex- 
pression. For the most part the selections are by American 
authors, and many by contemporary writers. It has been 
found frequently, that the classics do not serve to establish 
the elements of true responsiveness which should be sought 
for in the beginning, and, indeed, throughout all work in 
Expression. In some cases, past analytic study seems to 
be the cause ; and in others, a lack of present interest in the 
material. Classics are perhaps better studied in a second 
year of work, when the channels of expression have been 
somewhat freed and the student has a better understanding 
and use of his means of Expression. First year work should 
aim, it seems to the author, at an all round responsiveness 
in the individual. Finished interpretation of material 
should not be its aim. The author has in mind work being 
given in classes of fifteen or more, purely elective, where 
the group represented is in no sense a chosen one with spe- 
cial talent for Expression, but one of widely differing per- 
sonalities, abilities, training and cultural background. 

A goodly portion of material in poetic form has been in- 
eluded as it offers the best medium for vocal training and 
emotional response desirable for initial practise. Prose se- 
lections covering the short story, allegories, bits of descrip- 
tion, and speeches in blank verse, have been included in 
sufficient number to permit of practise in these various prose 

xi 



xii Preface 

forms. The speeches from Shakespeare may be used for 
study of conversational form, with reference particularly 
to emphasis and phrasing. Some work should be done in 
the beginnings of impersonation and the scenes will be 
found useful for this purpose. 

Much of the prose material is longer than will do for 
the timed "piece" to be used in contests calling for indi- 
vidual time limits. Though abridged in many instances, 
it was purposely left longer than such contests permit. 
First, because to so time a selection frequently ruins the 
story, and secondly, because more values accrue in the stu- 
dent through the study and delivery of longer selections. 
If the objection is made that these stories are too long 
to memorize, it is suggested that memorized presentation is 
not necessarily the be all and end all of work in Expres- 
sion. Train students to use the text in delivering material, 
and a great portion of the glaring faults of false, artificial, 
elocutionary performances, so long a connotation on work in 
Expression, will be eliminated. Again, if desired, in most 
of the stories a further abridgement will be found possible. 
Such arranging should be left to those who wish to use the 
"material, as much benefit may be derived from the attempt 
at abridgement. 

It is hoped that this book may be of service to those who 
are working in the High Schools as well as the Colleges, and 
it is in response to many calls for suggestions concerning 
programs, books of selections, conduct of declamatory con- 
tests, etc., that reference is made to these matters at the qlose 
of the book. If these suggestions, or any of the material in 
this book, prove of assistance to those who are desirous of 
making work in Vocal Expression of more educational value, 
the author will feel repaid for having made the compilation. 



CONTENTS 



PART I 
INTRODUCTION 

SECTION" PAGE 

I A Word to Teachers 3 

II Some Suggestions on Interpretation .... 11 



PART II 
MATERIAL FOR INTERPRETATION 

III Poetical Selections 21 

IV Prose Selections 115 

V Speeches from Shakespeare 311 

VI Scenes and One-Act Plays 323 

PART III 
DECLAMATORY CONTESTS 

VII Problems in the Conduct of Declamatory Con- 
tests 391 

VIII Contest Bibliography 407 

List of authors for contest material; descriptive 
list of these authors; books of material for inter- 
pretation; books containing oratorical material 
only; addresses for typed material for contest 
use ; contest references ; texts on voice and inter- 
pretation; program suggestions. 



PAET I 
INTKODUCTION 

SECTION I 
A WORD TO TEACHERS 



MODERN LITERATURE FOR 
ORAL INTERPRETATION 

SECTION I 
A WORD TO TEACHERS 

INSTRUCTORS in the art of interpretative speech ex- 
pression have held so parlous a position, for so long a 
time, that they have had to hold firmly to their ideals in 
order to keep even a spark of hope aglow. Now, at last, 
we seem likely to be recognized, not alone as ornamental, 
but as actually useful and necessary. 

Rightfully, the firmest ground on which interpretative 
work can ever stand, the broadest uses to which it can 
ever be put, aside from its stage dominion, must be in con- 
nection with the study and teaching of literature. This is 
not to slight in any way the various lines in which vocal 
expression may be usefully and culturally pursued. But 
our strongest raison d'etre we have ourselves been slow to 
realize, and teachers of literature infinitely slower. 

It has been my privilege to instruct in interpretative 
expression for eighteen years, eight in preparatory schools, 
and the past ten in university work. I trust I may be per- 
mitted therefore, to speak from the teaching standpoint 
concerning standards in interpretative work, and the gen- 
eral attitude of many English teachers towards teachers of 
vocal expression. 

That we, as teachers of expression, have not made our- 

3 



4 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

selves, long ere this, an absolute necessity in the teaching of 
literature is, I believe, largely our own fault. I have al- 
ready indicated one reason why vocal expression has been 
slow to gain friends among teachers of literature, viz. : 
standards in our own work. Let us face the matter frankly. 
Too often we do find teachers of expression whose interests, 
sometimes from choice, sometimes from necessity, are chiefly 
concerned with the preparing of students for recital only, 
such preparation consisting largely of a coaching process 
with little or no effort to arouse original thought or feeling, 
or to emphasize in the student definite thought processes. 
Beyond this, and of paramount importance, the voice, ex- 
cept in its needs for that special recitation, is given abso- 
lutely no attention, and the student no idea at all of 
vocalization in general. Because of this many people are 
still under the impression that work in vocal expression is 
largely a coaching and imitative process. Nothing could be 
further from the aim of any true work in the art. 

Again we use, and permit the use of material for inter- 
pretation that is largely useless and hopeless. It has little 
literary value and no really human appeal. How long will 
it yet be, before we of this profession shall definitely insist 
upon the use of a higher grade of material for public read- 
ing ? There will always be a public, and the kind of public 
we want, for readings of some literary value. We have no 
right to complain if that same desirable public refuses to 
take notice, even, of so called recitals and reciters — or per- 
formers. If there must be performers, let them use the 
vaudeville stage where they, too, may find a proper audi- 
ence, one that expects costumes and lights, accessories and 
performance, but not necessarily thought. 

Another grievous weakness we have; we do not, as a body 
of teachers and interpretative artists, include enough people 



Introduction 5 

of broad culture and thorough education. We have seen too 
many of mediocre scholarship and little personality leave 
their preparatory work, often only high school graduates, 
often after one or two years in a college or university, and 
with this preparation (?) enter a special school of expres- 
sion, fitted after two short years in such a school, to teach 
one of the most far reaching of subjects. "We are greatly 
handicapped in this regard, in that these special training 
schools have not sufficiently high entrance requirements, 
though this matter is now receiving attention, notably at 
Emerson. If there could be one school, even, which would 
insist upon a four year college or university course, with 
probably a degree, as entrance requirement, how soon the 
effects would be felt in our entire body of teachers and 
readers! So far as I know there is no such school. It 
would of necessity have to be an endowed institution, not 
obliged to exist on tuition received. " T is a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished" and seems almost Utopian. 
There is much opportunity, however, for those of us who 
have influence, to exert it always as we ought, by insisting 
on a completed course in college or university. And since 
so very much depends on personal qualifications for a 
teacher of this subject (does it not for any subject?) we 
should not encourage those, who, though they may have a 
certain amount of dramatic instinct, still are not adapted in 
personality or mentality to the teaching of vocal expres- 
sion and interpretative art. 

One other factor enters into our list of failings : we still 
lack personal sincerity and a business-like attitude toward 
our work, especially in the arrangement of our courses. 
The study of vocal expression should remove insincerities, 
and develop mind, body, and soul, until the three, acting 
together in simple, direct sincerity, make it possible to gftyry 



6 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

conviction and persuasion in ourselves, as well as to re- 
veal the thoughts and emotions intrusted to us on the writ- 
ten page, by all the bards and sages. Such simplicity and 
sincerity, together with a clearer and more coherent idea in 
our arrangement of work, could not but add to our dignity 
and importance as teachers of vocal expression. 

I have admitted our weaknesses. We have them, as who 
has not, but even these admissions do not, to my mind, ex- 
plain the attitude that teachers of literature have, until 
recently, exhibited toward us. As I intimated at the first, 
there seems now to be a more general feeling that we may 
not only be helpful, but possibly really necessary to the 
teaching of English and literature. I have been much in- 
terested in several articles in the ' ' English Journal, ' ' com- 
ing from men and women in authoritative positions, teach- 
ers of English and literature, all suggesting a definite need 
for more vitalizing of the literature taught. These articles 
have called attention to a lack of voice, personality, and 
warm sympathy on the part of the teacher of literature. 
The articles have asked for more expression through the 
medium of the human voice; and for a somewhat warmer 
and more human, dare I say a somewhat more emotional or 
imaginative interpretation and presentation by the in- 
structor. 

Whatever else the study of literature should include, it 
would seem there could be no doubt as to the necessity of 
its carrying to the student's heart, as well as mind, its great 
human thought and feeling, and, if poetry, its beauty of 
musical expression as well. So utterly deaf are our ears in 
these days to music in the speaking voice, and this one 
great opportunity to reach the young is so slighted ! How 
many a testimony I could give from students, who, with 
kindling eyes, have told me they never grasped the sig- 



Introduction 7 

nificance of that poem of Browning, of "Wordsworth, of 
Shelley, until now, when in the attempt to convey to others 
its meaning, that meaning has suddenly flashed clear, and 
they feel themselves in touch with the mind and heart — 
yes, and art, of the author about whom they have studied 
many facts — as they should — but whom they never knew till 
now ! 

Good reading, expressive reading that is, does indeed 
seem a lost art. It is never required of the student, the 
teacher does not attempt it himself. To quote a recent 
article in the " English Journal/' which, coming as it did 
from a member of an education faculty, gave me a distinct 
thrill of hope, "not one teacher in a hundred reads well, or 
attempts to read well. ' ' He has stated a small percentage, 
surely, but it is my observation and belief that it is not 
too small. It has been my privilege to work with many 
thoughtful English students, majors in the subject, and 
post-graduates taking master degrees. I have been repeat- 
edly amazed to find that this is their first consideration of 
the vocal problem, their first attempt in all their course to 
carry to others, not only their knowledge of all that con- 
cerns the work in hand, but also the emotional content or 
life lesson. Need I say these students, too, have been 
amazed at their inadequacy, that they have repeatedly said, 
"If I had only known sooner, but I didn't think anything 
about it." I will not multiply instances, but they are 
many. Possibly three out of ten students majoring or 
minoring in English think for themselves, of the necessity 
for a consideration of voice and interpretation. To a far 
smaller proportion is it even suggested or advised by the 
teachers of English. If this latter body will but cooperate a 
bit more cordially with us, we shall soon be able to have 
teachers of literature who will not be open to the eriti- 



8 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

cisnis which are now as justly theirs, as are any I have 
herein applied to teachers of vocal expression. 

It has been my personal observation .that far from help- 
ing us to be helpful, an English faculty, save in a few in- 
stances, hinders us, by utter ignorance of what classes in 
vocal expression are attempting to do, and by actually ad- 
vising students against the work (admitting, though, re- 
member, that they " really don't know much about the 
courses, ' ' but ' ' you don 't want to waste your time ; you can 
talk all right anyway ! ' ') . Had the majority of teachers of 
vocal expression no weaknesses, they could not hope to make 
much progress with students in English under such condi- 
tions. And I insist that such conditions are far more gen- 
eral than isolated or exceptional. I have always made it a 
practice to visit occasionally the classes in literature, that 
I might keep in touch with the material there under con- 
sideration, and so be helpful to the students in interpreta- 
tion. I have yet to see a member of an English faculty 
in a class in vocal expression or interpretation, for a simi- 
lar, or any other reason. 

Personally, I have followed the articles by English in- 
structors concerning the matter of the old and the new in 
the teaching of literature with eager hopefulness. It is 
because there is a new spirit that I urge that the teachers 
of vocal expression shall have a stronger sense of their re- 
sponsibilities and possibilities ; that they insist on scholarly 
standards in their members, their material, their courses. 
Lastly I plead for a more thoughtful consideration from 
the teachers of English with whom we are asked to co- 
operate. We can be helpful, we desire to be; we have 
made much improvement in all our short-comings, and we 
shall make more, in proportion as there is more active co- 
operation from the body of English teachers. 



SECTION II 
SOME SUGGESTIONS ON INTERPRETATION 



SECTION II 
SOME SUGGESTIONS ON INTERPRETATION 

1TAKE it for granted that this book may come to be used 
by some who have had little opportunity to consider 
carefully the processes involved in the rendering of ma- 
terial in interpretative form, and while a little knowledge is 
a dangerous thing in this field as in many others, it may be 
possible to offer some general suggestions that will, at 
least, point the way. 

It should be borne in mind that the fundamentals of the 
work of Expression cannot be taught, or learned, in any 
number of lessons by mail, through anybody's system, nor 
can they be got from books. These too, can only point the 
way. Expression has to do with the very essence of the 
individual, and is, at first and always, a growth, not an 
acquisition. This is particularly true of interpretative Ex- 
pression, for which practise the material of this book is 
intended. "Elocution is a moral faculty," says John Rus- 
kin, "and no one is fit to be the head of a children's school 
(or any other school) who is not both by nature and atten- 
tion a beautiful speaker. ' ' 

It is the firm conviction of the writer, after many years 
of teaching, study and observation, that teachers in the 
field of speech education, particularly on the interpretative 
side, have placed too much emphasis on the presentation of 
material in memorized fashion. In the work of younger 
students I believe this is one of the elements which has 

11 



12 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

done most to keep interpretative Expression on the plane of 
extravagant performance, thus laying it open to severe 
criticism. The wider field of better material has been lim- 
ited by the memory insistence, and added values in per- 
sonal growth, mental and physical, restricted because of 
the intensive demand of the memory performance. Edu- 
cationally, the expressive interpretation of the printed page 
from that page, seems infinitely broader in scope than mem- 
orized presentation can be. If it is urged that certain 
spectacular elements, dear to the hearts of the audience, 
cannot be evidenced with the printed page intervening, I 
can only reply that intervention has long been desirable, nay, 
urgent. But further, I do not find that any action which 
should be included in the presentation is excluded because 
of the presence of the book. Of course I do not expect that 
the material used is to be held in the hands, it must rest 
upon some stand where the eye may find it readily. The 
hands and the whole body must be free to give the ex- 
pressive response desirable, and there should be no repres- 
sion of such response. 

Placed alone, in the center of an empty platform space, 
the attention of the audience focussed upon one, the ma- 
terial memorized, everything in the situation tends to dis- 
turb true spontaneous expression. The rhythm is very 
likely to be affected, and there is an instinctive feeling of 
the necessity to do something the audience can see, — in 
short, to act. It requires great skill technically, great per- 
sonal power, and much practise, to render memorized ma- 
terial interpretatively and keep away from falseness, arti- 
ficiality and over-acting. In this connection it is inter- 
esting to note what one entirely outside our special field 
has said, touching exactly upon the matter. In an article 
in the "Dial" Miss Amy Lowell, who appreciates fully 



Introduction 13 

the necessity for oral rendition of literature, makes a clear 
distinction between the impersonative and the interpretative 
manner of presentation. She says: "Reading is not act- 
ing, and the point cannot be too strongly insisted upon. 
The pitfall of all elocution taught readers is that they fail 
to see this distinction. In a play, one can rely to a certain 
extent upon acting, and upon one's fellow actors. In read- 
ing, one is all alone, and one must not act. I do not mean 
that one should not read w T ith expression. I mean that it 
is more dangerous to overdo dramatic expression than to 
underdo it. The reader must not be confused with the 
impersonator. Impersonators act out their parts, although 
they are all alone upon the stage. They are approaching 
the brains of their audience from the same standpoint as 
the actor. They are acting in fact. In a play, the audience 
is intended to see the march of events w T ith its physical eyes. 
In reading, the audience must see nothing with its eyes 
which detracts from its mental vision. The dramatic qual- 
ity of the piece must be given just in so far as it stimulates 
the imagination, but never so far as to call attention to the 
reader as an actual personality. It must forget the reader 
in the thing read." (The italics are mine.) Is it not true 
that in preparing the student in a memorized presentation 
we are quite likely to stress the manner of the doing rather 
than the message of the selection? 

This should offer some suggestion upon the necessity for 
more careful consideration of the type of material used, 
and the capabilities of the interpreter. If the material be 
of the impersonative type, purely, then it should have 
impersonative presentation, perfect memorization being a 
part of that activity. Let it be noted that only a very 
small proportion of material falls under this type. Mono- 
logues, scenes from plays, though these are not necessarily 



14 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

of this type, and dialect selections form the largest part 
of this group of material. This type of material offers the 
spectacular possibility and is frequently chosen, but the 
capability and aptitude of the interpreter to present in this 
form is greatly overlooked. To be given successfully it 
really requires a natural gift of an imitative sort. Unless 
one is gifted naturally with the impersonative instinct in a 
marked degree, it is most unlikely that any amount of train- 
ing or coaching will make one successful in presentation of 
this sort. More consideration of the type of material being 
used will result in a much clearer knowledge as to the form 
of presentation best suited to the selection. The story form 
is probably the most confusing, because it includes such a 
variety of elements, but I believe it to be the best form for 
general use because of this very variety. Care must be 
taken not to break the unity of the presentation of story 
forms by undue stressing of any one or another of the 
various elements. Even when the story is almost a mono- 
logue in form, as "Aunt Jane in Kentucky," care should 
be taken not to over impersonate. 

I am well aware that my meaning will be misconstrued; 
that seems inevitable when one writes. I would not do 
away with memory work. I would have it used with much 
more consideration, and I urge much more use of the 
printed page. It is an oft repeated experience to find even 
the trained graduate of a special school of Expression who 
recites quite well, but who is actually unable to interpret 
intelligently, certainly not sympathetically, from the 
printed page. This would not be true if in the continued 
process of training in memory presentation, something had 
not been omitted. Assuredly it should be possible for 
any glib performer of memorized material to read both in- 
telligently and adequately, from a printed page when asked 



Introduction 15 

to do so. As a medium of training, every student should be 
required to give impersonative treatment of all material 
requiring that form of presentation. Their impersonative 
powers should be developed in every possible way. For an 
interpretative presentation, it is often well, even necessary, 
to work out in preparation as full an impersonative expres- 
sion of the selection as is possible. Physical expression of 
an active sort is of vital importance in all training for in- 
terpretative or other expression. When it comes to the fin- 
ished presentation, that form of presentation best suited 
to the student's individual possibilities and best adapted 
to the material, should be adopted for use. 

In all cases where memory work is to be done, be sure 
that every effort is made to keep it away from the mechani- 
cal type. See that it includes as many elements of mental 
and physical activity as possible. Remember that too often 
sounds and movements are memorized and the whole spon- 
taneous response of the individual seems lost. Even in 
memorized presentation, every idea and action should seem 
to be thought, and to occur, at the moment. Refuse to 
know anything except the present idea and its expression. 

There are so many excellent texts dealing with matters 
concerning the technique of Expression, it seems needless 
to set forth much in detail regarding these elements. I 
have listed the most helpful books in the latter portion of 
this text, and much assistance may be derived from a pe- 
rusal of these books. One should not attempt to teach the 
work without knowing the values of vocal changes, variety 
of pitch, rhythm, quality, and volume. If possible, only 
those who have acquired such knowledge from practise un- 
der direction, as well as study of text, should undertake to 
teach interpretative work. So much depends upon adequate 
and appropriate vocalization for desirable results, and imi- 



16 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

tative methods fail so signally in this relation, it seems 
almost necessary that the instructor shall have knowledge 
of a sort that will make it possible to teach the student by 
other than imitative methods. 

Such methods must be avoided too, in the matter of physi- 
cal expression. Nowhere does the fact of imitation of the 
teacher's work show more clearly, or seem more completely 
out of key, than in this part of the rendering. Most stu- 
dents, younger or older, will find an adequate physical ex- 
pression if rightly directed and stimulated. One general 
suggestion may be of assistance. Too much attention 
seems to be given to individual gestures or movements and 
not enough to the expression of the body as a whole. Even 
in parts of a selection calling for no impersonative action 
or direct gesture, the body should still partake as a whole 
of the spirit or feeling of the selection. So often the body 
seems uninformed until just as the arms come into action 
in some given gesture, and this having been completed, the 
body goes to sleep again. Many gestures seem lacking in 
truthfulness and ease because the entire body fails to war- 
rant and support the expression of the individual gesture 
and action. A certain sense of animation or expansion 
should always be present; it is fundamental and necessary 
to all good movement or gesture. 

In general it is safe to advise that there be too little, 
rather than too much action and gesture in interpretative 
presentation. Very frequently, the young reciter has been 
directed into too many literal movements, such as the han- 
dling of a telephone, opening of letter, etc., in the midst of 
an interpretative rendering — or what should be such. This 
breaks entirely the unity of the presentation. The mind 
of the on-looker is at once diverted by obvious failures to 
live up to 1 ho Hteralness which has been partly established, 



Introduction 17 

To complete such literal action is impossible and it should 
be omitted altogether. The trouble arises in the beginning 
when no clear distinction is made as to whether the ren- 
dering is to be an acted (impersonated) one, or an inter- 
pretative one. Having decided what sort of treatment the 
nature of the material requires, remain true to the form 
adopted. 

The story form will offer the most difficulties and compli- 
cations as it includes direct address, impersonative ele- 
ments, and all shades between. Even here, however, it is 
possible to avoid the uneven exhibitions so common. First 
and last and always there is an individual telling the story, 
the story's mouth-piece, and that individual should never 
give the impersonative elements in other than the sugges- 
tive manner with which we report such elements in reality. 
I appreciate again that it is utterly impossible to make a 
statement which w T ill apply to every type of story, or every 
type of literature. For instance, there is the story which 
is told in the first person almost the entire time, either in 
prose or verse. This is virtually a monologue and may 
be treated as such, usually impersonatively. There are 
many stories in this form, or monologues of the better type 
which lose value by such treatment, notably some of Brown- 
ing 's. 

In conclusion I quote from "How to Read," by J. B. 
Kerfoot, by far the best book on the subject I have ever 
read. If the following lines were kept well in mind it 
seems that a much better understanding of the possibilities 
and function of interpretative expression might be gained. 
i ' We have nothing to read with except our own experience 
— the seeing and hearing and smelling and tasting and 
touching that we have done; the fearing and hoping and 
hating and loving that has happened to us ; the intellectual 



18 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

and spiritual reactions that have resulted ; and the assump- 
tions, understandings, prides, prejudices, hypocrisies, fer- 
vors, foolishnesses, finenesses, and faiths that have thereby 
been precipitated in us like crystals in a chemist's tube. " 
May we not have greater consideration of the elements that 
make for interpretative expression? May we not hope to 
better very considerably the tendency to over-do in spec- 
tacular action, and under-do in that action which reveals 
subtly and truly the real participation of the interpreter? 
This latter is the one desired end of Interpretative Expres- 
sion. 



PAET II 

MATERIAL FOR INTERPRETATION 

SECTION III 
POETICAL SELECTIONS 



SECTION III 
POETICAL SELECTIONS 

THE PATH TO THE WOODS 

ITS friendship and its carelessness 
Did lead me many a mile, 
Through goat's-rue, with its dim caress, 
And pink and pearl-white smile ; 
Through crowfoot, with its golden lure, 
And promise of far things, 
And sorrel with its glance demure 
And wide-eyed wonderings. 

It led me with its innocence, 
As childhood leads the wise, 
With elbows here of tattered fence, 
And blue of wildflowers' eyes; 
With whispers low of leafy speech, 
And brook-sweet utterance; 
With bird-like words of oak and beech, 
And whisperings clear as Pan's. 

It led me with its childlike charm, 
As candor leads desire, 
Now with a clasp of blossomy arm, 
A butterfly kiss of fire ; 

21 



22 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Now with a toss of tousled gold, 
A barefoot sound of green, 
A breath of musk, of mossy mold, 
With vague allurements keen. 

It led me with remembered things 

Into an old-time vale, 

Peopled with faery glimmerings, 

And flower-like fancies pale ; 

Where fungous forms stood, gold and gray, 

Each in its mushroom gown, 

And, roofed with red, glimpsed far away, 

A little toadstool town. 

It led me with an idle ease, 

A vagabond look and air, 

A sense of ragged arms and knees 

In weeds grown everywhere; 

It led me, as a gypsy leads, 

To dingles no one knows, 

With beauty burred with thorny seeds, 

And tangled wild with rose. 

It led me as simplicity 

Leads age and its demands, 

With bee-beat of its ecstasy, 

And berry-stained touch of hands ; 

With round revealments, puff-ball white, 

Through rents of weedy brown, 

And petaled movements of delight 

In roseleaf limb and gown. 

It led me on and on and on, 

Beyond the Far Away, 

Into a world long dead and gone, — 



Material for Interpretation 23 

The world of Yesterday : 
A faery world of memory, 
Old with its hills and streams, 
Wherein the child I used to be 
Still wanders with his dreams. 

Madison Cawein. 



THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE 

What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, 
And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light ; 
'T is then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to 

tree, 
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. 

This is the carol the Robin throws 
Over the edge of the valley ; 
Listen how boldly it flows, 
Sally on sally: 

Tirra-lirra, 
Down the river, 
Laughing water 
All a-quiver. 
Day is near, 
Clear, clear. 
Fish are breaking. 
Time for waking. 
Tup, tup, tup ! 
Do you hear? 
All clear — 
Wake up ! 



24 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with 
the dark, 

And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark ; 

Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond- 
fields of dew, 

While every voice cries out "Rejoice !" as if the world were 
new. 

This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, 
Unto his mate replying, 
Shaking the tune from his wings 
While he is flying: 

Surely, surely, surely, 

Life is dear 

Even here. 

Blue above, 

You to love, 
Purely, purely, purely. 

There 's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, 
And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well ; 
The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, 
Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to 
drink. 

This is the song of the Yellowthroat, 
Fluttering gaily beside you; 
Hear how each voluble note 
Offers to guide you : 

Which way, sir? 
I say, sir, 



Material for Interpretation 25 

Let me teach you, 
I beseech you ! 
Are you wishing 
Jolly fishing? 
This way, sir! 
I '11 teach you. 



Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your 

fears behind, 
And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet 

mind; 
For be your fortune great or small, you 11 take what God 

may give, 
And all the day your heart shall say, ' ' 'T is luck enough to 

live." 

This is the song the Brown Thrush flings 
Out of his thicket of roses ; 
Hark how it warbles and rings, 
Mark how it closes: 

Luck, luck, 

What luck? 

Good enough for me! 

I 'm alive, you see. 

Sun shining, 

No repining; 

Never borrow 

Idle sorrow; 

Drop it ! 

Cover it up ! 

Hold your cup ! 



26 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Joy will fill it, 
Don't spill it, 
Steady, be ready, 
Good Luck! 

Henry Van Dyke. 



BIRCHES 

When I see birches bend to left and right 

Across the lines of straighter darker trees, 

I like to think some boy's been swinging them. 

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. 

Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them 

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning 

After a rain. They click upon themselves 

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored 

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. 

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells 

Shattering and avalanching on the snowcrust — 

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away 

You 'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. 

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, 

And they seem not to break ; though once they are bowed 

So low for long, they never right themselves : 

You may see their trunks arching in the woods 

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground 

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair 

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. 

But I was going to say when Truth broke in 

With all her matter-of-fact about the icestorm 

(Now am I free to be poetical?) 

I should prefer to have some boy bend them 



Material for Interpretation 27 

As he went out and in to fetch the cows — 

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, 

Whose only play was what he found himself, 

Summer or winter, and could play alone. 

One by one he subdued his father 's trees 

By riding them down over and over again 

Until he took the stiffness out of them, 

And not one but hung limp, not one was left 

For him to conquer. He learned all there was 

To learn about not launching out too soon 

And so not carrying the tree away 

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise 

To the top branches, climbing carefully 

With the same pains you use to fill a cup 

Up to the brim, and even above the brim. 

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, 

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. 

So was I once myself a swinger of birches. 

And so I dream of going back to be. 

It 's when I 'm weary of considerations, 

And life is too much like a pathless wood 

Where your face burns and .tickles with the cobwebs 

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping 

From a twig's having lashed across it open. 

I 'd like to get away from earth awhile 

And then come back to it and begin over. 

May no fate willfully misunderstand me 

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away 

Not to return. Earth 's the right place for love : 

I don't know where it 's likely to go better. 

I 'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, 

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk 

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, 



28 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

But dipped its top and set me down again. 

That would be good both going and coming back. 

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 

Robert Frost. 



THE LITTLE LAND 

When at home alone I sit 

And am very tired of it, 

I have just to shut my eyes 

To go sailing through the skies — 

To go sailing far away 

To the pleasant Land of Play; 

To the fairy land afar 

Where the Little People are; 

Where the clover-tops are trees, 

And the rain-pools are the seas, 

And the leaves like little ships 

Sail about on tiny trips ; 

And above the daisy tree 

Through the grasses, 

High o 'erhead the Bumble bee 

Hums and passes. 

In that forest to and fro 
I can wander, I can go; 
See the spider and the fly, 
And the ants go marching by 
Carrying parcels with their feet 
Down the green and grassy street. 
I can in the sorrel sit 
Where the ladybird alit. 



Material for Interpretation 29 

I can climb the jointed grass; 

And on high 

See the greater swallows pass 

In the sky 

And the round sun rolling by 

Heeding no such things as I. 

Through that forest I can pass 
Till, as in a looking-glass, 
Humming fly and daisy tree 
And my tiny self I see, 
Painted very clear and neat 
On the rain-pool at my feet. 
Should a leaflet come to land 
Drifting near to where I stand, 
Straight I 11 board that tiny boat 
Round the rain-pool sea to float. 

Little thoughtful creatures sit 
On the grassy coasts of it ; 
Little things with lovely eyes 
See me sailing with surprise. 
Some are clad in armour green — 
(These have sure to battle been! — ) 
Some are pied with ev'ry hue, 
Black and crimson, gold and blue ; 
Some have wings and swift are gone; — 
But they all look kindly on. 

When my eyes I once again 
Open, and see all things plain: 
High bare walls, great bare floor; 
Great big knobs on drawer and door; 



30 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Great big people perched on chairs, 
Stitching tucks and mending tears, 
Each a hill that I could climb, 
And talking nonsense all the time — 

dear me, 

That I could be 
A sailor on the -rain-pool sea, 
A climber in the clover tree, 
And just come back, a sleepy-head, 
Late at night to go to bed. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



KIDS 

"Hey, I Ve found some money- wort, 
Some day I '11 be rich! — 
Or I wonder if it 's checkerberry ? — 
I don't know which is which. 

"Look, don't touch that blade of gra&s, 
Just keep away from it! 
For see that frothy bubbly ball? — 
That 's snake-spit ! 

' ' Cover your lips, the darning-needle 
Loves to sew 'em up ! — 
Who likes butter? Lift your chin — 
Here 's a buttercup. 

"She loves me — she loves me not — 
I wish that I knew why 
It always comes a different way 
Every time I try. 



Material for Interpretation 31 

"How many children? — Here you are — 
You can have three blows — 
And you don't want many children, 
For you have to buy 'em clo'es. 

"Now we can take the stems, see, 
And wet 'em into curls 
And stick 'em in our hair and run 
And make believe we 're girls. 

" D 'y ' ever whistle a blade of grass ? 
Look, I got a fat one. . . . 
You slit it, see? Here 's one for you — 
There 's no snake-spit on that one. 

"Aren't big people funny 

That they don't want to play? 

And some of 'em don't like ice-cream — 

I couldn't be that way. 

t ■ They just sit round and talk and talk — 
0' course theii^ hands are clean. 
But they make us wash ours all the time. 
I could n 't be that mean, 

"No, honestly I couldn't, 
Could you? I 'd sooner die. 
We '11 dig some worms to-morrow 
And go fishin'! Goo '-by! 

Witter Bynner. 



32 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

WHEN THE SUMMER BOARDERS COME 

Yes, June is here an' now, by jing! it won't be long until 
Our good old-fashioned neighborhood 'at seems so kind o' 

still 
An' solemn-like at times, as though the world had shut us 

in, 
'LI sort o' waken from her dream an' stir herself agin. 
The medder 's full o' daisies an' the trees is full o' bloom, 
An' after dark the fireflies is sparkin' in the gloom; 
The birds is busy buildin' nests, the hives is full o' hum; 
It 's jest about the season when the summer boarders come. 

Peculiar lot o ' people is the ones 'at come from town, 
They 're full o' funny notions, but they plank the money 

down. 
It don 't much matter what they git ner what they have to 

pay,— 
Jes' give 'em lots o' buttermilk an' let 'em have their way. 
'Pears 's if they yearn for scenery an' never git enough 
0' sunsets an' o' moonlight nights, and highty-tighty stuff; 
But sence they pay me fer it, why, I 'm keepin' mighty 

mum; 
You '11 find me diplermatic when the summer boarders come. 

One year I thought I 'd please 'em, so I spent a good, big 

pile 
A-buyin' tony fixin's an' a-slingin' on the style. 
I painted up the house an' barn an' built a picket fence, 
"All moderrun conveniences" I planned at big expense. 
I got some patent foldin'-beds an' a pianner, too, 
An ' tried to make the place appear like city mansions do, 



Material for Interpretation S3 

But when the folks come — jiminy! — they wouldn't stop a 

day; 
Such " comforts' ' made 'em tired, so they 's up an' go 

away. 

So then I scraped the paint all off the fence an' barn an' 

house, 
An' cast aside my nice store clothes fer overalls an' blouse. 
In place o' every door-knob I contrived a wooden latch, 
I ripped the shingles off the roof an' made a leaky thatch. 
The patent pump I traded fer a windlass an' a rope, 
The bath-room is a horse-trough an' a hunk o' home-made 

soap. 
The foldin'-beds an' likewise the planner's cheerful thrum — 
Oh, we hide 'em in the attic when the summer boarders 

come. 

An' sense I reconstructed things the house has overflowed 
With summer boarders every year — 'pears like the whole 

world knowed 
'At here 's the place to find the joys 'at 's near to Nature's 

heart, 
The extry, duplex, simon-pure, without a touch o' art. 
Folks like, my homely dialect an' ask me fer to spin 
Some simple yarn an ' by an ' by they '11 ask fer it agin ; 
So I 've just got to jolly 'em; but say, it 's tough, by gum ! 
Fer me, who 's been through Harvard, when the summer 

boarders come. 

Nixon Waterman. 



34 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

THE BALLAD OF SOULFUL SAM 

You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin ' line, 
Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets 

whine ; 
Out there where the bombs are bustin', and the cannons 

like 'ell-doors slam — 
Just order another drink, boys, and I 11 tell you of Soulful 

Sam. 

Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I Ve 'ad some 

mates as was wus ; 
He 'ad n't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to 

cuss. 
For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'ad n't a friendly 

word; 
But when it came down to Scriptures, say ! Was n 't he just 

a bird ! 

He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would 
haste to present, 

And though the fellers would use them in ways that they 
never was meant, 

I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I Ve been im- 
pressed 

By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in 
his vest. 

For I — and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word 

conveys ! 
'Ave been — let me whisper it 'oarsely — a gambler 'alf of 

me days; 



Material for Interpretation 35 

A gambler, you 'ear — a gambler. It makes *ne wishful to 

weep, 
And yet 'ow it 's true, my brethren ! — I 'd rather gamble 

than sleep. 

I 've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to 

Maine ; 
From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to 

Spain. 
Cards ! They 'ave been me ruin. They 've taken me pride 

and me pelf, 
And when I 'd no one to play with — why, I 'd go and I 'd 

play by meself . 

And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy 

deck, 
And 'e 'd say: "You 're bound to Perdition." And I 'd 

answer : i ' Get off me neck ! ' ' 
And that 's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a 

different plan, 
Me wot 's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. 

But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness ! The bat- 
tle-front ! 

The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! 

Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, 

When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is 
Soulful Sam. 

Yes ; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash 

and flame, 
'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the 

same. 



36 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons 

attacked, 
He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a 

tract. 

Then a star-shell flared, and I read it : il Oh, Flee from the 

Wrath to Come." 
Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you 're 'earin' the 

bullets 'urn. 
And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits 

of lead 
Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner 

. . . Dead? 

No, siree ! not by a long sight ! For it plugged 'im 'ard on 

the chest, 
Just where 'e 'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is 

vest. 
On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it 

caved 
A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys — but the life o' me 

pal was saved. 

And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was 
chokin' me breath, 

On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death ; 

On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, 

And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wal- 
loped me bang on the breast. 

Was I killed, do you ask? Oh, no, boys. Why am I sit- 

tin' 'ere 
Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? 



Material for Interpretation 37 

With a throat as dry as a — oh, thanky! I don't much 

mind if I do. 
Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that 's my particular brew. 

Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard 

o'er the 'eart ; 
It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the 

gore to start ; 
And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of 

hate and strife, 
Me wretched past like a pitchur — the sins of a gambler's 

life. 

For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's 

doom; 
I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb ; 
I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet 's aim ; 
I 'd only — a deck of cards, boys, but — it seemed to do just 

the same. 

Robert W. Service. 



THE SONG-SPARROW 

There is a bird I know so well, 

It seems as if he must have sung 

Beside my crib when I was young; 

Before I knew the way to spell 

The name of even the smallest bird, 

His gentle-joyful song I heard. 

Now see if you can tell, my dear, 

What bird it is that, every year, 

Sings ' ' Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer, ' ' 



38 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

He comes in March, when winds are strong, 

And snow returns to hide the earth ; 

But still he warms his heart with mirth, 

And waits for May. He lingers long 

While flowers fade; and every day 

Repeats his small, contented lay; 

As if to say, we need not fear 

The season 's change, if love is here 

With " Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer." 

He does not wear a Joseph ? s-coat 

Of many colours, smart and gay ; 

His suit is Quaker Brown and gray. 

With darker patches at his throat. 

And yet of all the well-dressed throng 

Not one can sing so brave a song. 

It makes the pride of looks appear 

A vain and foolish thing, to hear 

His tl Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer." 

A lofty place he does not love, 

But sits by choice, and well at ease, 

In hedges, and in little trees 

That stretch their slender arms above 

The meadow-brook ; and there he sings 

Till all the field with pleasure rings; 

And so he tells in every ear, 

That lowly homes to heaven are near 

In "Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer." 

I like the tune, I like the words; 
They seem so true, so free from art, 
So friendly, and so full of heart, 
That if but one of all the birds 



Material for Interpretation 39 

Could be my comrade everywhere, 

My little brother of the air, 

This is the one I 'd choose, my dear, 

Because he 'd bless me, every year, 

With ' ' Sweet-sweet-sweet -very merry cheer. ' ' 

Henry Van Dyke. 



STOVES AND SUNSHINE 

Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the 

sea — 
The land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me ! 
I Ve done the grand for fourteen months in every foreign 

clime, 
And I 've learned a heap of learning, but I Ve shivered all 

the time; 
And the biggest bit of wisdom I Ve acquired — as I can see — 
Is that which teaches that this land 's the land of lands 

for me. 

Now, I am of opinion that a person should get some 
Warmth in this present life of ours, not all in that to come ; 
So when Boreas blows his blast, through country and 

through town, 
Or when upon the muddy streets the stifling fog rolls 

down, 
Go, guzzle in a pub, or plod some bleak malarious grove, 
But let me toast my shrunken shanks beside some Yankee 

stove. 

The British people say they "don't believe in stoves, y' 
know"; 



40 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Perchance because we warmed 'em so completely years ago ! 
They talk of "drahfts" and " stuffiness' ' and "ill effects of 

heat," 
As they chatter in their barny rooms or shiver 'round the 

street ; 
With sunshine such a rarity, and stoves esteemed a sin, 
What wonder they are wedded to their fads — catarrh and 

gin? 

In Germany are stoves galore, and yet you seldom find 

A fire within the stoves, for German stoves are not that 

kind ; 
The Germans say that fires make dirt, and dirt 's an odious 

thing, 
But the truth is that the pfennig is the average Teuton's 

king, 
And since the fire costs pfennigs, why, the thrifty soul 

denies 
Himself all heat except what comes with beer and exercise. 

The Frenchman builds a fire of cones, the Irishman of 

peat; 
The frugal Dutchman buys a fire when he has need of 

heat — 
That is to say, he pays so much each day to one who 

brings 
The necessary living coals to warm his soup and things; 
In Italy and Spain they have no need to heat the house — 
'Neath balmy skies the native picks the mandolin and louse. 

Now, we 've no mouldy catacombs, no feudal castles grim, 
No ruined monasteries, no abbeys ghostly dim; 
Our ancient history is new, our future 's all ahead, 



Material for Interpretation 41 

And we Ve got a tariff bill that 's made all Europe sick 

abed — 
But what is best, though short on tombs and academic 

groves, 
We double discount Christendom on sunshine and on 

stoves. 

Dear land of mine ! I come to you from months of chill 

and storm, 
Blessing the honest people whose hearts and hearths are 

warm; 
A fairer, sweeter song than this I mean to weave to you 
When I Ve reached my lakeside 'dobe and once get heated 

through ; 
But, even then, the burthen of that fairer song shall be 
That the land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me. 

Eugene Field. 

THE LITTLE ROOM OF DREAMS 



Next to the shelving roof it stood — 

My boyhood 's cozy bed ; 
So near I felt the serried storm 

Go charging o'er my head. 
'T is fifty summers, yet I hear 

The branch against the pane, 
The midnight owl, the thunder crash, 

The rhythm of the rain. 

The golden apples long desired 

Fell thumping from the trees, 
Till the Dream transformed them to the fruit 

Of fair Hesperides. 



42 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The owl within his chimney porch 

Became Minerva's own, 
The lightning was the bolt of Jove, 

Each tree a dryad's groan. 

From there the flames of Troy were seen, 

There Salamis was won ; 
Now Hannibal would cross the Alps, 
And now Napoleon. 
On Valley Forge's scene of prayer 

My winter window gave; 
Bed Jacket there was eloquent, 

And Osceola, brave. 

Who could divine that from my sill 

Fought wounded Tvanhoe? — 
That there I saw Sir Galahad 

Gleam in the moon, below? 
"Who knew that I was veteran 

Of Bayard's noble strife? — 
That there for many a hapless maid 

I offered up my life? 

There, too, I knew the midnight trance 

Of not unwholesome grief, 
(Since tears for others' sorrow shed 

Bring to our own, relief) : 
I felt the lash on Uncle Tom, 

And mourned Don Quixote 's fall ; 
With David wept for Absalom, 

With Dombey, Little Paul. 

More oft a father's bedtime lore 
So filled with joy the night, 



Material for Interpretation 43 

I woke at dawn from rosy dreams 

Expectant of delight. 
For I had roamed the enchanted wood 

With Puck or Rosalind, 
Or shared with dainty Ariel 

The visions of the wind. 



11 

Another little bed I know — 

With dreams I never knew — 
That holds a maid as brave and fair 

As she Carpaccio drew. 
Her fragrant pillow oft I seek 

To find its magic power, 
As one recalls a day of youth 

By the perfume of a flower. 

The beasts that did my sleep affright 

Are from her fancy hid. 
She finds the jungle full of friends, 

As little Mowgli did. 
For her the Aesop of our day 

Summons his crafty clan. 
The Blue-bird is her happy goal, 

Her hero, Peter Pan. 

What visions of a spirit world 

About her slumber float, 
Pure as the Swan whose Silver Knight 

Glides in a silver boat ! 
There, too, — most blessed of the dreams 

That have the world beguiled, — 



44 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

An Angel with a lily kneels 
To greet the Holy Child. 



Far be the time when care and toil 

Shall wrest these joys away, 
Whereby this darling of my blood 

Makes yesterday to-day. 
For ah — so near the things that be 

Are to the things that seem — 
Soon I to her, as Youth to me, 

Shall be a thing of dream. 

Robert Underwood Johnson. 



THE GEESE OF ATHABASCA 

Somewhat southward from Alaska 

Lie the moors of Athabasca; 

And in these bleak uncouth dominions — 

So far detached from our opinions 

That none can ever misconstrue 

The tale I want to tell to you — 

There gathered at the equinox 

Some eager migratory flocks 

Of ganders, geese, and goslings — and 

The ganders had the upper hand, 

Debating with a gaping mouth 

On whom to choose to lead them south. 

In spite of casual digressing 

They thought the matter was progressing, 

When all the geese began to flap 

With wings, and cackle too, and rap 

With bills on sundry sticks and stocks 



Material for Interpretation 45 

And crane their necks around the flocks. 

Their actions, though surprising, new, 

(Bizarre at times it may be, too), 

Betrayed such aim and fervor, surely 

One should n 't chide them prematurely, 

And fiery hot as salamanders, 

They much impressed the puzzled ganders, 

Who paused and pondered in their pates, 

What their vociferating mates 

Intended by these frantic states. 

"Give us" they cry, "a chance to say 

Who 't is shall guide us on our way ; 

Give us" they cry, "a voice, a voice — 

Who shares the risk, should share the choice." 

And now and then from some old goose 

More deft, it seems, in logic's use, 

The ganders heard reflections meant 

To ridicule their government, 

As antiquated precedent, 

And divers observation tending 

To show how much it needed mending — 

The more, since geese were different. 

One says: "Our judgment lacks in poise, 

And all we do is make a noise? — 

But can't we tell as well as you 

Where trees are green and skies are blue?" 

Another: "You, sirs, should elect, 

Since 't is your business to protect ? — 

Define protection . . . more than skill 

In thrusting out an angry bill 

With anserine intent to kill. 

Our wings are weapons, sirs, as good — 

When clasped around the little brood." 



46 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Another: "Yes, the goslings, goslings? — 

Now that 's a point that 's full of puzzlings 

For these our ganders — Hear my queries ! — 

Have we no business with the dearies ? — 

Have we no right at all to say 

Who 's fit to lead them on the way?," 

And then a younger goose, an active 

And in her person most attractive, 

Eemarked with widely parted lips 

That put her eyeballs in eclipse: 

"We wouldn't be so charming, — pooh! — 

If we should choose along with you? 

You wouldn't like to see us sniffle, 

And wrangle round — piffle, piffle : 

The fact is, nature made us so 

That nothing w T e might undergo 

Could take that something from us which 

Oft gives your heartstrings such a twitch 

And furthermore, you 'd better drop 

The sugar-plum and lollipop — 

That sort of argument won't please 

The intellectual type of geese." 

"The intellect, the intellect," 

Another cries, "they don't suspect — 

And think the issue to confuse 

By queer domestic interviews 

About our functions and the aim — 

As if the privilege we claim 

Might shrink the size and number of 

The eggs we lay, the chicks we love." 

I do not note for special causes 

The interjections and applauses. 

"Give us," they cry again, "a voice, 



Material for Interpretation 47 

Who share the risk should share the choice." 

And though some points might need apology, 

As shaky in their sociology, 

That cry appealed to instincts, reason — 

So ganders yielded for the season. 

But whether it became a practice 

In future times, and what the fact is 

About the sex of guide and leader 

The muse conceals from bard and reader, 

Assuring only that they ne'er 

Had made a trip more safe and fair 

Down the continental air, 

From the moors of Athabasca, 

Somewhat southward of Alaska, 

From those bleak, uncouth dominions 

So far detached from our opinions 

That none can ever misconstrue 

The tale I here have told to you. 

William Ellery Leonard. 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT 

What was he doing, the great god Pan 
Down in the reeds by the river ? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river? 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river, 
The limpid water turbidly ran. 



48 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 
While turbidly flowed the river; 
And hacked and hewed as a great god can, 
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short did the great god Pan, 

(How tall it stood in the river!) 

Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 

Steadily from the outside ring, 

And notched the poor dry empty thing 

In holes, as he sat by the river. 

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, 

(Laughed as he sat by the river,) 

* 6 The only way since gods began 

To make sweet music, they could succeed! 

Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 

He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan ! 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 

Blinding sweet, great god Pan ! 

The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
To laugh as he sits by the river, 



Material for Interpretation 49 

Making a poet out of a man ; 
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 
For the reed which grows never more again 
As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



PEBBLE, SONG AND WATER FALL 

Have you a religion, 

a philosophy, 

a theory or two or three? — 

bring them out here — 

a bath in this air won't hurt them — 

or you can keep them in your pockets — 

nobody here for you to show them to — 

for you and your thought to be doubted by— 

and scatter them at the last 

(you may find them useless?) 

down the mountain slope — 

poke them with a stick 

and watch them slide 

over strange soil and past stranger surroundings, 

only to bounce and skip and twirl and fly — 

(fancy the joy they 'd have, 

pent up as they were back East!) 

then to nestle out of sight, 

beyond* all argumentation ! 

Have you no religion, 

no philosophy, 

no theory or two or three? — 

you can pick them up, 

have them for the mere stooping, 



50 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

or break them, pluck them pleasantly — 

Indian paint-brush, 

baby-blue-eyes, 

forget-me-not, 

the yellow monkey weed — 

dizzier climbing 

(like a bug up the side of a wall!) 

will give you clouds of wild lilac, 

or wild clematis — 

or a spray of the manzanita, 

so named by the race of Fray Junipero ! 

Or come and steal a bird song — 

(the mocking bird will teach you how!) 

or don't steal it — 

let them play on you, 

(so many snatches the birds have here!) 

let them start innocent counterpoint 

with the aid of the wood-choir falls, 

these water falls, 

the high snow and higher sun 

contrive with the aid of the chance of the day ! 

Pebble, song or water fall, 

pebble, song or water fall — 

which one will you choose ? — 

(why not have them all?) 

there 's only the sky — 

and this is a sky, Brother, 

this great Sierra sky, 

big and round and blue, 

meeting the horizon wherever you stare — 

there 's only this sky 

to see what you do or don't do — 

(it doesn't spy!) 



Material for Interpretation 51 

and these trees ! These trees ? — 

out here they 're so still and so silent, 

you 'd fancy them dead — 

they don't even whisper a ghostly phrase — 

and if they have thoughts, 

(like the folk back East!) 

they have a way of sharing them 

without polluting the air with conjecture — 

and there 's no wind to carry their gossip — 

if of a sudden they gossiped a trifle! 

Let us go — 

you and I — 

with creeds — 

without creeds — 

or with and without — 

the mountains out here — 

these gray Sierra elephants — 

you can crawl up their sides — 

and from high broad shoulder to higher and highest — 

(if there is a highest?) 

they won't shrug you off — 

not that they 're docile — 

they simply don't care! 

Nevertheless and notwithstanding, 

for the sake of imbroglio — 

suppose we gave them a tickle or two, 

right through their hides to a rib or two ? — 

(elephants must have a rib somewhere?) 

and suppose they did mind and did shrug us off? 

Pebble, song or water fall — 

which one would you choose 

for toppling and sliding and bouncing 

and skipping and twirling and flying? — 



52 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

(fancy the joy we 'd have, 

pent up as we were back East!) 

but why not have all three? — 

pebble, song and water fall, 

pebble, song and water fall — 

then to nestle out of sight, 

beyond all argumentation! 

Come on, Brother! 

But wait ! 

One moment! 

Don 't forget to bring your humility ! 

Alfred Kreymborg. 



THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS 

I would build a cloudy house 

For my thoughts to live in 

When for earth too fancy-loose, 

And too low for heaven ! 

Hush ! I talk my dreams aloud — 

I build it bright to see, — 

I build it on the moonlit cloud 

To which I looked with thee. 

Cloud-walls of the morning's gray, 
Faced with amber column, 
Crowned with amber cupola 
From a sunset solemn! 
May-mists for the casements fetch, 
Pale and glimmering, 
With a sunbeam hid in each, 
And a smell of spring. 



Material for Interpretation 53 

Build the entrance high and proud, 
Darkening and then brightening, 
Of a riven thundercloud, 
Veined by the lightning, 
Use one with an iris stain 
For the door so thin, 
Turning to a sound like rain 
As I enter in. 

Build a spacious hall thereby, 
Boldly, never fearing; 
Use the blue place of the sky 
Which the wind is clearing; 
Branched with corridors sublime, 
Flecked with winding stairs 
Such as children wish to climb, 
Following their own prayers. 

In the mutest of the house 
I will have my chamber. 
Silence at the door shall use 
Evening's light of amber, 
Solemnizing every mood, 
Softening in degree, 
Turning sadness into good, 
As I turn the key. 

Be my chamber tapestried 
With the showers of summer, 
Close, but soundless, — glorified, 
When the sunbeams come here; 
Wandering harpers, harping on 
Waters stringed for such, 



54 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Drawing color for a tune, 
With a vibrant touch. 



Bring a shadow, green and still, 

From the chestnut forest; 

Bring a purple from the hill, 

When the heat is sorest; 

Spread them out from wall to wall, 

Carpet-wove around, 

Whereupon the foot shall fall 

In light instead of sound. 

Bring fantastic cloudlets home 

From the noontide zenith ; 

Range for sculptures round the room 

Named as fancy weeneth: 

Some be Junos, without eyes; 

Naiads, without sources; 

Some be birds of paradise; 

Some, Olympian horses. 

Bring the dews the birds shake off 
Waking in the hedges, — 
Those, too, perfumed for a proof, 
From the lilies' edges; 
From our England's field and moor 
Bring them calm and white in, 
Whence to form a mirror pure 
For love's self -delighting. 

Bring a gray cloud from the East, 
Where the lark is singing, 
Something of the song, at least, 



Material for Interpretation 55 

Unlost in the bringing, 
That shall be a morning chair, 
Poet-dream may sit in, 
When it leans out on the air, 
Unrhymed and unwritten. 

Bring the red cloud from the sun ! 

While he sinketh, catch it. 

That shall be a couch, — with one 

Sidelong star to watch it, — 

Fit for poet's finest thought 

At the curfew sounding, 

Things unseen being nearer brought 

Than the seen around him. 

Poet's thought, not poet's sigh, 
'Las, they come together ! 
Cloudy walls divide, and fly, 
As in April weather! 
Cupola and column proud, 
Structure bright to see — 
Gone — except that moonlit cloud, 
To which I looked with thee ! 

Let them! Wipe such visionings 
From the fancy's cartel — 
Love secures some fairer things 
Dowered with his immortal. 
The sun may darken, — heaven be bowed — 
But still unchanged shall be, — 
Here in my soul, — that moonlit cloud, 
To which I looked with thee! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



56 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

THE CAT, THE RAVEN, AND THE PUBLIC 

A Cat and Raven quarreled once. 
The Cat called Raven coward, dunce, 
Lobster, blatherskite, poltroon, 
Blackguard, scullion, and coon, 
Hatchet-face and scrawny pate, 
And other names I must not state 
If I wish this tale to be 
Sound in its morality. 
And ere the Raven could reply, 
The Cat had clawed it in the eye ; 
And ere the Raven had upsprung, 
The Cat had bitten off its tongue. 
The Public, ignorant of what 
A handicap the Bird had got, 
Admired its passive reticence 
And said, "What dignity, what sense, 
What lofty self-control! This Raven 
Deigns not to answer such a craven. 
Aye, silence is the wise retort — 
It makes your foe feel like a wart/* 

MORAL 

It ? s often nothing of the sort ! 

William Ellery Leonard. 



Material for Interpretation 57 

THE DUCK AND THE NIGHTINGALE 

An ancient Duck, complacent, fat, 
Whose miserable habitat 
Had been the stagnant pool behind 
The barnyard of Boeotian hind, — 
Save when she waddled by the fence 
Among the roosters and the hens, 
To snap with bony bill at corn 
Her owner scattered every morn, 
Or when within the crib she sate 
To hatch her eggs and meditate, — 
Began to make some slight pretense 
To wisdom and experience. 
She heard at dark a Nightingale 
At no great distance down the dale — 
The winged Nightingale who 'd flown 
In every sky, in every zone, 
And sung while moon or morning star 
Descended over hills afar — 
And thus the Dame began to quack: 
' £ Nightingale, you '11 surely crack 
That voice of yours, unless your soul 
Can learn a little self-control; 
Try settling down and doing good, 
And earn a sober livelihood." 

MORAL 

Conceited ignorance with ease 
Pronounces its banalities. 

William Ellery Leonard. 



58 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

APOLLO TROUBADOUR 

"When a wandering Italian 
Yesterday at noon 
Played upon his hurdy-gurdy 
Suddenly a tune, 

There was magic in my ear-drums: 
Like a baby's cup and spoon 
Tinkling time for many sleigh-bells, 
Many no-school, rainy-day-bells, 
Cow-bells, frog-bells, run-away-bells, 
Mingling with an ocean medley 
As of elemental people 
More emotional than wordy — 
Mermaids laughing off their tantrums, 
Mermen singing loud and sturdy, — 
Silver scales and fluting shells, 
Popping weeds and gurgles deadly, 
Coral chime from coral steeple, 
Intermittent deep-sea bells 
Ringing over floating knuckles, 
Buried gold and swords and buckles, 
And a thousand bubbling chuckles, 
Yesterday at noon, — 
Such a melody as star-fish, 
And all fish that really are fish. 
In a gay, remote battalion 
Play at midnight to the moon ! 

Could any playmate on our planet, 
Hid in a house of earth's own granite, 
Be so devoid of primal fire 



Material for Interpretation 59 

That a wind from this wild crated lyre 

Should find no spark and fan it ? 

Would any lady half in tears, 

Whose fashion, on a recent day 

Over the sea, had been to pay 

Vociferous gondoliers, 

Beg that the din be sent away 

And ask a gentleman, gravely treading 

As down the aisle at his own wedding, 

To toss the foreigner a quarter 

Bribing him to leave the street; 

That motor-horns and servants' feet 

Familiar might resume, and sweet 

To her offended ears, 

The money-music of her peers ! 

Apollo listened, took the quarter 

With his hat off to the buyer, 

Shrugged his shoulder small and sturdy, 

Led away his hurdy-gurdy 

Street by street, then turned at last 

Toward a likelier piece of earth 

Where a stream of chatter passed, 

Yesterday at noon ; 

By a school he stopped and played 

Suddenly a tune. . . . 

What a melody he made ! 

Made in all those eager faces, 

Feet and hands and fingers ! 

How they gathered, how they stayed 

With smiles and quick grimaces, 

Little man and little maid! — 

How they took their places, 



60 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Hopping, skipping, unafraid, 

Darting, rioting about, 

Squealing, laughing, shouting out! 

How, beyond a single doubt, 

In my own feet sprang the ardor 

(Even now the motion lingers) 

To be joining in their paces! 

Round and round the handle went, — 

Round their hearts went harder; — 

Apollo urged the happy rout 

And beamed, ten times as well content 

With every son and daughter 

As though their little hands had lent 

The gentleman his quarter. 

(You would not guess — nor I deny — 

That that same gentleman was I!) 

No gentleman may watch a god 

With proper happiness therefrom; 

So street by street again I trod 

The way that we had come. 

He had not seen me following 

And yet I think he knew; 

For still, the less I heard of it, 

The more his music grew: 

As if he made a bird of it 

To sing the distance through. . . . 

And, Apollo, how I thrilled, 

You liquid-eyed rapscallion, 

With every twig and twist of spring, 

Because your music rose and filled 

Each leafy vein with dew — 

With melody of olden sleigh-bells, 



Material for Interpretation 61 

Over-the-sea-and-far-away-bells, 
And the heart of an Italian, 
And the tinkling cup and spoon, — 
Such a melody as star-fish, 
And all fish that really are fish, 
In a gay remote battalion 
Play at midnight to the moon! 

Witter Bynner. 



AMBITION 

I want to be a Highbrow, 
I want to take my stand, 
With elevated eye-brow 
And manner very grand, 
Amid the tea-room chatter 
And learnedly rehearse 
Exactly what 's the matter 
With all the universe. 

I want to be a Highbrow, 
Who looks, with very wry brow, 
On things that others praise; 
Who passes cruel strictures 
On artists who can draw 
But raves o'er Cubist pictures 
With rapt adoring awe ! 

I want to be a Highbrow, 
Who follows mystic creeds 
And laurel decks the shy brows 
Of poets no one reads, 



62 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

I ? d join the weird outre rites 
Of ultra Highbrow bands, 
Discussing unknown playwrights, 
"Whom no one understands. 

I want to be a Highbrow, 
With air of perfect poise, 
Who lifts a scornful eyebrow 
At all the rough world's noise, 
Oh, I could fill with glee so 
Desirable a shelf, 
A Highbrow seems to be so 
Delighted with himself. 

Berton Braley. 



THE LAW OF THE YUKON 

This is the law of the Yukon and ever she makes it plain : 
' ' Send not your foolish and feeble ; send me your strong and 

your sane — 
Strong for the red rage of battle ; sane, for I harry them 

sore ; 
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are girt to the 

core; 
Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in 

defeat, 
Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat. 
Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen 

ones ; 
Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons ; 
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with 

my meat ; 



Material for Interpretation 63 

But the others — the misfits, the failures — I trample under 

my feet. 
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and 

slain, 
Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters — Go ! take back 

your spawn again. 



"Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway; 
From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million 

years and a day ; 
Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come, 
Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept 

the scum. 
The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, 
One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was — 

Men. 
One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my 

glooms ; 
One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms. 
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, poisoned the blood in 

their veins ; 
Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their 

sight, 
Lashed them with fungus white faces, whimpering wild in 

the night ; 
Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad 

thru the snow, 
Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow; 
Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their 

flight, 
Left for the wind to make music thru ribs that are glit- 
tering white; 



64 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of 

despair, 
Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer ; 
Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam, 
Writing a check for a million, driveling feebly of home ; 
Lost like a louse in the burning ... or else in the tented 

town 
Seeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down; 
Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world, 
Lost 'mid the flotsam, far on the frontier hurled ; 
In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons 

aglare, 
Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare ; 
Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled 

with lies, 
In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my 

midnight skies. 
Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so nathless I suffer 

them thrive, 
Crushing my weak in their clutches, that only my Strong 

may survive. 

' l But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would 

'stablish my fame 
Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honor, not shame; 
Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they 

go, 
Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling the ramparts of 

snow; 
Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my 

creeks, 
Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother 

speaks. 



Material for Interpretation 65 

I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods ; 
Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods. 
Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, 
Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the 

first; 
Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, 
Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities 

unborn. 
Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, 
And I wait for the men who will win me — and I will not 

be won in a day; 
And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, 
But by men with the hearts of Vikings, and the simple 

faith of a child ; 
Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or 

defeat, 
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my 

meat. 

" Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily 

wise, 
With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, pas- 
sionless eyes; 
Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day, 
When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go 

away; 
Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave — 
Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep on their path and I 

stamp them into a grave. 
Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me 

good, 
Of children born on my borders, of radiant motherhood, 
Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, 



66 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the 
world. ' ' 

This is the Lav/ of the Yukon, that only the strong shall 

thrive ; 
That surely the weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive. 
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and 

slain, 
This is the Will of the Yukon, — Lo, how she makes it plain ! 

Robert W. Service. 

A WANDERER'S LITANY 

When my life has enough of love, and my spirit enough of 

mirth, 
When the ocean no longer beckons me, when the roadway 

calls no more, 
Oh, on the anvil of Thy wrath, remake me, God, that day ! 

When the lash of the wave bewilders, and I shrink from 

the sting of the rain 
When I hate the gloom of Thy steel-gray wastes, and slink 

to the lamp-lit shore, 
Oh, purge me in Thy primal fires, and fling me on my 

way! 

When I house me close in a twilit inn, when I brood by a 

dying fire 
When I kennel and cringe with fat content, where a pillow 

and loaf are sure, 
Oh, on the anvil of Thy wrath, remake me, God, that day ! 

When I quail at the snow on the uplands, when I crawl from 
the glare of the sun, 



Material for Interpretation 6? 

When the trails that are lone, invite me not, and the half- 
way lamps allure, 
Oh, purge me in Thy primal fires, and fling me on my 
way! 

When the wine has all ebbed from an April, when the 

autumn of life forgets 
The call and the lure of the widening West, the wind in the 
straining rope, 
Oh, on the anvil of Thy wrath, remake me, God, that day ! 

When I waken to hear adventurers strange throng valiantly 

forth by night, 
To the sting of the salt-spume, dust of the plain, and width 

of the western slope, 
Oh, purge me in Thy primal fires, and fling me on my 

way! 

When swarthy and careless and grim they throng out under 

my rose-grown sash, 
And I — I bide me there by the coals, and I know not heat 
nor hope 
Then, on the anvil of Thy wrath, remake me, God, that 
day! 

Arthur Stringer, 



WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 

Sea-king's daughter from over the sea, Alexandra! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! 
Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 



68 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 
Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, 
Scatter the blossoms under her feet! 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, bird, in the new-budded bowers ! 
Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer ! 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 
Warble, bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland, flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air!. 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 
Melt into stars for the land 's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
Roil as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, 
And welcome her, welcome the land's desire, 
The sea-king ? s daughter as happy as fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir, 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
joy to the people and joy to the throne, 
Come to us, love us and make us your own; 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 

We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



Material for Interpretation 69 

TIPPERARY IN THE SPRING 1 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When the hawthorn 's whiter than the snow, 

When the feathered folk assemble, and the air is all 

a-tremble 
With their singing and their winging to and fro : 
When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant vesture on, 
And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring, 
And the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance — 
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring. 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When mists are rising from the lea, 

When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all beguiling, 

And the Suir goes crooning to the sea ; 

And the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers 

That the lavish hand of May w r ill fling ; 

Where in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays — 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Spring! 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When life like the year is young, 

When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom breaking, 

And love words linger on the tongue ; 

When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes, 

And love dreams cluster and cling 

Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure, half 

of pain — 
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring. 

Denis A. McCarthy. 

i' Copyright, Little, Brown & Co. 



70 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

THE JOY OF THE HILLS 

I bide on the mountain tops, I ride ; 
I have found my life and am satisfied. 
Onward I ride in the blowing oats, 
Checking the field-lark's rippling notes — 

Lightly I sweep 

From steep to steep : 
Over my head through the branches high 
Come glimpses of a rushing sky; 
The tall oats brush my horse's flanks ; 
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks ; 
A bee booms out of the scented grass ; 
A jay laughs with me as I pass. 

I ride On the hills, I forgive, I forget 

Life's hoard of regret — 

All the terror and pain 

Of the chafing chain. 

Grind on, cities, grind: 

I leave you a blur behind. 
I am lifted elate — the skies expand : 
Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of samL 
Let them weary and work in their narrow walls : 
I ride with the voices of waterfalls ! 
I swing on as one in a dream — I swing 
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing ! 
The world is gone like an empty word : 
My body 's a bough in the wind, my heart a bird ! 

Edwin Markham. 



Material for Interpretation 71 

THE SEA-FAIRIES 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, 
Whispering to each other half in fear, 
Shrill music reach 'd them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and the happy 

blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; 
Down shower the gamboling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea: 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me: 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day: 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and dales^ 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; 
Hither, come hither and see; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 



72 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be : 
hither, come hither, and be our lords 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : 
listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten ^ 

With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o 'er, all the world o 'er ? 
Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner fly no 
more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE MERMAN 



Who would be 
A merman bold, 
Sitting alone, 
Sitting alone, 
Under the sea, 
With a crown of gold, 
On a throne ? 



I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 



Material for Interpretation 73 

With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flowers ; 
And holding them back by their flowing locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me, 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale green sea-groves straight and high, 
Chasing each other merrily. 



There would be neither moon nor star, 

But the wave would make music above us afar — 

Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nor star 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between, 
All night, merrily, merrily; 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me, 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea : 
We would live merrily, merrily. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



74 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 
THE MERMAID 



Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea, 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne? 



I would be a mermaid fair ; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; 
And still as I comb 'd I would sing and say, 
"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 

Low adown, low adown. 
From under my starry- sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 

Springing alone 

With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 

In the midst of the hall ; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleep in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 



Material for Interpretation 75 

And all the mermen under the sea 

Would feel their immortality 

Die in their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, 

And lightly vault from the throne and play 

With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 

On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, 

Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and shriek 

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 

From the diamond ledges that jut from the dells ; 

For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list, 

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 

In the purple twilights under the sea; 

But the king of them all would carry me, 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me, 

In the branching jaspers under the sea; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet silently, 

All looking up for the love of me. 

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 

Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 

All looking down for the love of me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



76 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

INDIAN SUMMER 

(After completing a book . . . for one now dead.) 

(0 Earth-and- Autumn of the Setting Sun, 
She is not by, to know my task is done!) 

In the brown grasses slanting with the wind, 
Lone as a lad whose dog 's no longer near, 
Lone as a mother whose only child has sinned, 
Lone on the loved hill . . . and below me here 
The thistle-down in tremulous atmosphere 
Along red clusters of the sumach streams ; 
The shrivelled stalks of goldenrod are sere, 
And crisp and white their flashing old racemes. 
(. . . forever . . . forever . . . forever . . .) 
This is the lonely season of the year, 
This is the season of our lonely dreams. 

(0 Earth-and- Autumn of the Setting Sun, 
She is not by, to know my task is done!) 

The corn-shocks westward on the stubble plain 
Show like an Indian village of dead days ; 
The long smoke trails behind the crawling train, 
And floats atop the distant woods ablaze 
With orange, crimson, purple. The low haze 
Dims the scarped bluffs above the inland sea, 
Whose wide and slaty waters in cold glaze 
Await yon full-moon of the night-to-be. 
(. . . far . . . and far . . . and far . . .) 
There are the solemn horizons of man's ways, 
These the horizons of solemn thought to me. 



Material for Interpretation 77 

(0 Earth-and- Autumn of the Setting Sun, 
She is not by, to know my task is done!) 

And this the hill she visited, as friend ; 

And this the hill she lingered on, as bride — 

Down in the yellow valley is the end : 

They laid her ... in no evening Autumn tide . . . 

Under fresh flowers of that May morn, beside 

The queens and cave-women of ancient earth . . . 

This is the hill . . . and over my city 's towers, 

Across the world from sunset, yonder in air, 

Shines, through its scaffoldings, a civic dome 

Of piled masonry, which shall be ours 

To give, completed, to our children there . . . 

And yonder far roof of my abandoned home 

Shall house new laughter. . . . Yet I tried. ... I tried. . . . 

And, ever wistful of the doom to come, 

I built her many a fire for love . . . for mirth. 

(When snows were falling on our oaks outside, 

Dear, many a winter fire upon the hearth) . . . 

(. . . farewell . . . farewell . . . farewell . . .) 

We dare not think too long on those who died, 

While still so many yet must come to birth. 

William Ellery Leonard. 

EITUAL 

Lord God, what may we think of Thee, 

Save that in stars we drink of Thee, 

Save that in the abundance of Thy sunlight we have seen 

Thine excellent intention; 

And Thy marvelous invention 

In great and little living things and all the grades between ? 



78 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Lord God, what may we say to Thee 

Who know our hearts give way to Thee 

Surely at last in secret depths, though protest long denies, 

And that to live is wonder 

With worlds above and under 

Unreached of any mortal heart, blurred to all mortal eyes? 

Lord God, the fitting praise to Thee 
Rather would seem to raise to Thee 
Only pure honesty of mind, waiting Thy stalwart will ; 
Like as the hills believe Thee, 
Like as the seas receive Thee, 

Like as the trees whose rustlings cease, — who hear Thee and 
are still ! 

William Rose Benet. 



A BALLAD OF THE ROAD 

Oh, a gypsy longing stirs your heart 
When Autumn ? s sounding the rover's calif 
"Oh, leave the city and leave the mart, 
Come out, come out where the red leaves fall, 
And asters flame by each gray stone wall ! 
Have done with cares that fetter and goad, 
Heed ye and harken ye one and all, 
And know the joys of the winding road!" 

A veil of purple lies on the hills, 

Your step moves swift to some unknown air — 

Forgotten music of boughs and rills — 

The oaks are russet, the maples flare, 

The sumach's splendor glows here and there, 



Material for Interpretation 79 

And your weary heart has slipped its load, 
Oh, bright the sunlight as on you fare 
Tasting the joys of the winding road ! 

Odors of earth when the wild winds blow, 
New views to greet you at each hill 's crest, 
Color and beauty where'er you go — 
These shall add to your journey's zest. 
And when the daylight dies in the west 
A star-hung roof for your night 's abode, 
A bed of pine and a dreamless rest — 
These are the joys of the winding road. 

Oh, ye of the town who do not know 
How blithe and free is the rover 's code ! 
Come out, come out where the glad winds blow ! 
There 's joy for all on the winding road ! 

Constance D'Arcy Mackay. 



QUESTIONS 

"What shall I do when blows blind me? 

How fare on when counsels cross? 

Where shall I turn when life behind me 

Seems like a course run at a loss ? 

Through what throes shall I beat to windward, 

Uncontent with a lesser port? 

Whom shall I trust when Heaven of me, 

Heaven itself, seems making sport? 

How shall I answer a knave's rating, 
Done in a liar's arithmetic? 



80 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

What shall I say to a fool's prating, 
In destructiyeness as quick? 
How shall I meet a friend 's treason 
When it has scuttled the good ship Faith? 
Whose are the stars, if wide disaster 
At its will can do me scathe? 

Answer there is, a brief order : 
' ' Bear all blows, and yet be free ; 
Let no bitterness set a border 
To your will, no treachery. 
Speak, if you are the bigger for it ; 
Keep the silence, if you are less; 
And if the stars indeed be godless, 
Steer still by their godliness." 

Gale Young Bice. 



HILL-FANTASY 1 

Sitteth by the red cairn a brown One, a hoofed One, 

High upon the mountain, where the grasses fail. 

Where the ash-trees flourish far their blazing bunches to the 

sun, 
A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale. 

.( 

I was on the Mountain, wandering, wandering; 

No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew. 

Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that Strange 

Thing, 
Peaked ears and sharp horns, pricked against the blue. 

i "Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "Myself And I" 
by Fannie Stearns Davis. Copyright, 1913, by the Macmillan Co, 



Material for Interpretation 81 

Oh, and how he piped there ! piped upon the high reeds 

Till the blue air crackled like a frost -film on a pool ! 

Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom no one 

heeds, 
Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind and cool ! 

He had berries 'twixt his horns, crimson-red as cochineal. 
Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh, 
How his deft lips puckered round the reed, and seemed to 

chase and steal 
Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low ! 

I said, "Good-day, Thou!" He said, "Good-day, Thou!" 
Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back. 
He said, "Come up here, and I will teach thee piping now. 
While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not lack. ' ' 

Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me. 

Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn. 

Broad into my face laughed that horned Thing so naughtily. 

Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr's bairn! 

"So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look! 
Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges. So ! 
Soon, 't will twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like the lost 

brook. 
Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! blow! blow!" 

Brown One ! Hoofed One ! beat the time to keep me 

straight. 
Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear. 
Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold thy breath, 

for — wait ! 
Joy comes bubbling to my lips. I pipe ! oh, hear ! 



82 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of us? 
Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how I blow ? 
Far away the sea-isles swim in sun-haze luminous. 
Each one has a color like the seven-splendored bow. 

Wind, wind, wind, dost thou mind me how I pipe now? 
Chipmunk chattering in the beech, rabbit in the brake? 
Furry arm around my neck : ' ' Oh, thou art a brave one, 

Thou!' 7 
Satyr, little satyr-friend, my heart with joy doth ache ! 

Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music tremulous, 
Water over steaming rocks, water in the shade, 
Storm-tune and sun-tune, how they flock up unto us, 
Sitting by the red cairn, gay and unafraid ! 

Brown One, hoofed One, give me nimble hoofs, Thou ! 

Give me furry fingers and a secret furry tail ! 

Pleasant are thy smooth horns : if their like were on my 

brow 
Might I not abide here, till the strong sun fail ? — 

Oh, the sorry brown eyes! Oh, the soft kind hand-touch, 
Sudden brush of velvet ears across my wind-cool cheek! 
"Play-mate, Pipe-mate, thou askest one good boon too 

much. 
I could never find thee horns, though day-long I should 

seek. 

"Yet, keep the pipe, Thou: I will cut another one. 
Keep the pipe and play on it for all the world to hear. 
Ah, but it was good once to sit together in the sun ! 
Though I have but half a soul, it finds thee very dear ! 



Material for Interpretation 83 

"Wise Thing, Mortal Thing, yet my half -soul fears thee! 
Take the pipe and go thy ways, — quick now, for the sun 
Reels across the hot west and stumbles dazzled to the sea. 
Take the pipe, and oh — one kiss ! then run ! run ! run ! ' ' — 

Silence on the mountain. Lonely stands the high cairn. 
All the leaves a-shivering, all the stones dead-gray. 

thou cold small pipe, which way is fled that Satyr's 

bairn ? 

1 am lost and all alone, and down drops the day. 

I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering. 
There I got this Pipe o' dreams. Strange, when I blow, 
Something deep as human love starts a-crying, troubling. 
Is it only sky-music, earth-music low? 

Fannie Stearns Davis. 



THE MONASTERY 

Over the wall is — home. The window of my cell 

Stares at my truancy as if to ask, 

"Why should a mission to the town mean this — 

A day-long absence in the woods and hills ?" 

It seems so strange, the monastery there, 

So questioning, so alien; but I see 

The duties filling up the sunset hour, 

Picture the others passing to and fro. 

There afe long balconies above the court, 

With lattice-work that checkers out the sun ; 

And dark-cowled forms behind stalk up and down, 

Telling their Pater Nosters on the beads. 

The court, a still oasis buried deep 

Within the monastery's breast, is green 



84 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

With slender blades of grass and myrtle leaves, 
Where spring has wantoned in and left a kiss. 
Shadows are gathering about the shrines, 
The tapers down the halls will soon be lit, 
When Father Andre makes his shuffling round, 
Dressing the saints and altars for the night. 
I know that silence fills the corridors, 
Save when a windy sigh goes rustling through, 
A door swings wide, and in the distance hums 
A resonant chant — then the door 's shut again, 
Leaving an echo and a memory. 

Here in the grove outside the wall I lie, 
Where the last ribbon 'd sunlight filters in 
Between the saplings ; shadows here are bold 
And purple, warm as the damp earth under me. 
Silence is here, as there; but breathing deep, 
Pregnant, alive — not ominous and chill. 
I had not meant to loiter here so long — 
This means a penance and a fast for me, — 
Who should be now before the crucifix. 
Something like hands has kept me here tonight, 
Something in tree and bird and wind and sky, 
That would not let me go away again. 
I must go back — must throw aside this flower 
Tight-crushed within my fingers ; when it 's gone 
I 11 be myself again ; and can go back. 

Arbutus — it was waiting here for me — 
It was not odor — it was suffering 
Borne on the breath of April to my soul, 
Out of a past long-buried and forgot. 
The earthly incense, passion-sweet, rose up, 



Material for Interpretation 85 

And passion-painful curled about my heart, 
Bringing remembrance of warm years of spring, 
Filled with arbutus, filled with wind — with life. 
And then I digged it, underneath the mould 
Laid bare the fragrance of its small pink face, 
And held it to me, drinking in the pain. 
I could not get enough, it seemed ; must strain 
To breathe the utmost of the agony in — 
Such, I remember now, were love — and death — 
And all the aching mortal things I knew 
So long ago. 

Ah, it was sweet to taste 

That mad and stabbing passion once again, 

That wrestling of the flesh and soul to touch 

The infinity of beauty crowned with stars ! 

To find eternity through hungry sense, 

That needed God to be quite satisfied! 

I felt it all again ; the throbbing surge 

That used to stir me like an organ-peal 

Thrilling into the cloister ; life aflame, 

Calling me, world to man, and God to man — 

Daring to fight, despite the suffering! 

Arbutus — poignant — crushed between my palms — 

Burning my heart out with the love of life — 

I must go back — the vesper bell has rung — 

Twilight is filling up the grove ; the stars 

Are showing past the monastery dome 

Like an old painting. Father Andre 's there, 

Holding the lamp above the gate. I 11 go, 

And take my chastisement as is my due — 

I '11 leave the arbutus here — I have been mad — 

Marjoric Rinnan. 



86 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

IN BLOSSOM TIME 

It 's my heart, my heart, to be out in the sun and sing, 
to sing and shout in the fields about in the balm and blos- 
soming. Sing loud, bird in the tree ; bird sing loud in 
the sky, and honey-bees blacken the clover seas; there are 
none of you glad as I. The leaves laugh low in the wind, 
laugh low with the wind at play, and the odorous call of the 
flowers all entices my soul away. For but the world is 
fair, and but the world is sweet, I will out of the gold 
of the blossoming mold, and sit at the Master's feet. And 
the love my heart would speak, I will fold in the lily's rim, 
that the lips of the blossom, more pure and meek may offer 
it up to him. Then sing in the hedgerow green, thrush, 
O skylark, sing in the blue; sing loud, sing clear, that the 
King may hear, and my soul shall sing with you. 

Ina Coolbrith. 

IF WE HAD THE TIME 

If I had the time to find a place 

And sit me down full face to face 

With my better self, that cannot show 

In my daily life that rushes so : 

It might be then I would see my soul 

Was stumbling still toward the shining goal, 

I might be nerved by the thought sublime, — 

If I had the time ! 

If I had the time to let my heart 
Speak out and take in my life apart, 
To look about and stretch a hand 
To a comrade quartered in no-luck land ; 



Material for Interpretation 87 

Ah, God ! If I might but just sit still 

And hear the note of the whip-poor-will, 

I think that my wish with God's would rhyme, — 

If I had the time ! 

If I had the time to learn from you 

How much for comfort my word could do ; 

And I told you then of my sudden will 

To kiss your feet when I did you ill ; 

If the tears aback of the coldness feigned 

Could flow, and the wrong be quite explained, — 

Brothers, the souls of us all would chime, 

If we had the time ! 

Richard Burton. 



THEODORE ROOSEVELT 

Gigantic figure of a mighty age! 

How shall I chant the tribute of thy praise, 

As statesman, soldier, scientist, or sage? 

Thou wert so great in many different ways. 

And yet in all there was a single aim — 

To fight for truth with sword and tongue and pen ! 

In wilderness, as in the halls of fame, 

Thy courage made thee master over men. 

Like some great magnet, that from distant poles 

Attracts the particles and holds them fast, 

So thou didst draw all men, and fill their souls 

"With thy ideals, — naught caring for their past, 

Their race or creed. There was one only test : 

To love our country and to serve it best ! 

Leon Huhner. 



88 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

QUENTIN ROOSEVELT 

As falls the fragment of a mighty star 
Into the night, where all was dark before; 
A brilliant flash attracting men afar, 
Seen but a moment, to be seen no more; 
So, in the sky, this youthful warrior bold, 
Outlined a brilliant course before he fell, 
Turning a silver star to one of gold, 
A star to be remembered long and well. 
"What matters that the fitful course was brief 
And vanished swiftly in eternal night ? 
In such a fall there is no cause for grief, 
For souls like these leave trails of golden light. 
He spread the glory of his country's fame, 
And added lustre to a noble name. 

Leon Huhner. 

WHEN THE TRAIN COMES IN 

Well, yes, I calkerlate it is a little quiet here 
Per one who 's b'en about the world and traveled fur an' 
near; 
But maybe 'cause I never lived no other place, to me 
The town seems 'bout as lively as a good town ort to be. 
We go about our bizness in a quiet sort o ' way, 
Ner thinkin' o' the outside world, exceptin' wunst a day 
We gather at the depot, where we laff an' talk an' spin 
Our yarns an' watch the people when the train comes in. 

Si Jenkins, he 's the jestice o' the peace, he allers spends 
His money fer a paper which he glances through an' lends 



Material for Interpretation 89 

To some the other fellers, an' we all take turns an' chat, 
An' each one tells what he 'u'd do if he was this er that; 
An' in a quiet sort o' way, afore a hour 's gone, 
We git a purty good idee o' what 's a-goin' on, 
An' gives us lots to think about until we meet ag'in 
The follerin , to-morrer when the train comes in. 

When I git lonesome-like I set aroun' the barber-shop 
Er corner groc'ry, where I talk about the growing crop 
With fellers from the country; an' if the sun ain't out too 

hot, 
We go to pit chin' hoss-shoes in Jed Thompson's vacant lot 
Behin' the livery stable; an' afore the game is done 
As like as not some feller '11 say his nag kin clean outrun 
The other feller's an' they take 'em out an' have a spin ; 
But all git back in town afore the train comes in. 

I see it in the papers 'at some folks, when summer 's here, 
Pack up their trunks an' journey to the seashore every year 
To keep from gittin' sunstruck; I 've a better way than 

that, 
Fer when it 's hot I put a cabbage-leaf inside my hat 
An' go about my bizness jes as though it was n't warm — 
Fact is I ain 't a-doin ' much sense I moved off my farm ; 
An' folks 'at loves the outside world, if they 've a mind to, 

kin 
See all they ort to of it when the train comes in. 

An' yit I like excitement, an' they 's nothin' suits me more 
'An to git three other fellers, so 's to make a even four, 
'At knows the game jest to a T, an' spend a half a day 
In some good place a-fightin' out a battle of croquet. 
There 's Tubbs who tends the post-office, an' old Doc Smith 
and me 



90 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

An ' Uncle Perry Louden — it 'u 'd do you good to see 

Us fellers maul them balls aroun'; we meet time an' agin 

An' play an' play an' play until the train comes in. 

An' take it all in all I bet you 'd have to look aroun' 
A good, long while afore you 'd find a nicer little town 
'An this 'n' is. The people live a quiet sort o' life, 
Ner carin' much about the world with all its woe an' strife. 
An' here I mean to spend my days, an' when I reach the end 
I '11 say, "God bless ye!" an' " Good-bye," to every faith- 
ful friend ; 
An' when they f oiler me to where they ain't no care ner sin, 
I '11 meet 'em at the depot when the train comes in. 

Nixon Waterman. 



THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S 

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN 

The ladies of St. James 's go swinging to the play ; 

Their footmen run before them, with a il Stand by! 
Clear the way!" 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! she takes her buckled shoon, 

When we go out a-courting beneath the harvest moon. 

The ladies of St. James's wear satin on their backs; 

They sit all night at Ombre, with candles all of wax : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! she dons her russet gown, 

And runs to gather May dew before the world is down. 

The ladies of St. James's they are so fine and fair, 
You 'd think a box of essences was broken in the air : 



Material for Interpretation 91 

But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! the breath of heath and furze, 
When breezes blow at morning, is not so fresh as hers. 

The ladies of St. James's they 're painted to the eyes ; 

Their white it stays for ever, their red it never dies : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! her color comes and goes ; 

It trembles to a lily, — it wavers to a rose. 

The ladies of St. James's! You scarce can understand 
The half of all their speeches, their phrases are so grand : 

But Phyllida, my Phyllida! her shy and simple words 
Are clear as after rain-drops the music of the birds. 

The ladies of St. James's ! they have their fits and freaks : 
They smile on you — for seconds, they frown on you — for 
weeks : 
But Phyllida, my Phyllida ! come either storm or shine, 
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, is always true — and 
mine. 

My Phyllida ! my Phyllida ! I care not though they heap 
The hearts of all St. James's, and give me all to keep; 

I care not whose the beauties of all the world may be, 
For Phyllida — for Phyllida is all the world to me ! 

Austin Dobson. 



SOULS 1 

My soul goes clad in gorgeous things, 

Scarlet and gold and blue; 
And at her shoulder sudden wings 

Like long flames flicker through. 

i Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "Myself And I" 
by Fannie Stearns Davis. Copyright, 1913, by the Macmillan Co. 



92 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

And she is swallow-fleet, and free 

From mortal bonds and bars. 
She laughs, because Eternity 

Blossoms for her with stars! 

O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, 

My dull and foolish face, — 
Can ye not see my Soul flash down, 

A singing flame through space? 

And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate, 

Why may I not divine 
Your Souls, that must be passionate, 

Shining and swift, as mine ! 

Fannie Stearns Davis, 



LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE 

When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, 
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down 
To make a man to meet the mortal need. 
She took the tried clay of the common road — 
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of Earth, 
Dasht through it all a strain of prophecy; 
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears ; 
Then mixt a laughter with the serious stuff. 
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light 
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face; 
And laid on him a sense of the Mystic Powers, 
Moving — all husht — behind the mortal veil. 
Here was a man to hold against the world, 
A man to match the mountains and the sea. 



Material for Interpretation 93 

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; 

The smack and tang of elemental things : 

The rectitude and patience of the cliff; 

The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves ; 

The friendly welcome of the wayside well; 

The courage of the bird that dares the sea; 

The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; 

The pity of the snow that hides all scars ; 

The secrecy of streams that make their way 

Under the mountain to the rifted rock ; 

The tolerance and equity of light 

That gives as freely to the shrinking flower 

As to the great oak flaring to the wind — 

To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn 

That shoulders out the sky. Sprung from the West, 

He drank the valorous youth of a new world. 

The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, 

The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. 

His words were oaks in acorns ; and his thoughts 

Were roots that firmly gript the granite truth. 

Up from log cabin to the Capitol, 

One fire was on his spirit, one resolve — 

To send the keen ax to the root of wrong, 

Clearing a free way for the feet of God, 

The eyes of conscience testing every stroke, 

To make his deed the measure of a man. 

He built the rail-pile and he built the State, 

Pouring his splendid strength through every blow : 

The grip that swung the ax in Illinois 

Was on the pen that set a people free. 

So came the Captain with the mighty heart ; 



94 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

And when the judgment thunders split the house, 
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest, 
He held the ridgepole up, and spikt again 
The rafters of the Home. He held his place — 
Held the long purpose like a growing tree — 
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. 
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down 
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, 
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, 
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. 

Edwin Markham. 

By permission of the Author, from "Lincoln and Other Poems. 55 

THE MYSTIC 

There is a quest that calls me, 

In nights when I am lone, 
The need to ride where the ways divide 

The Known from the Unknown. 

I mount what thought is near me 

And soon I reach the place, 
The tenuous rim where the Seen grows dim 

And the Sightless hides its face. 

I have ridden the wind, 

I have ridden the sea, 

I have ridden the moon and stars. 

I have set my feet in the stirrup seat 

Of a comet coursing Mars. 

And everywhere 

Thro' the earth and air 

My thought speeds, lightning-shod, 



Material for Interpretation 95 

It comes to a place where checking pace 
It cries, "Beyond lies God!" 

It calls me out of the darkness, 

It calls me out of sleep, 
"Ride ! ride ! for you must, to the end of Dust !" 
It bids, — and on I sweep 
To the wide outposts of Being, 

Where there is Gulf alone — 
And thro ' a Vast that was never passed 
I listen for Life's tone. 

I have ridden the wind, 
I have ridden the night, 
I have ridden the ghosts that flee 
From the vaults of death like a chilling breath 
Over eternity. 
And everywhere 
Is the world laid bare — 
Ether and star and clod — 
Until I wind to its brink and find 
But the cry, "Beyond lies God!" 

It calls me and ever calls me! 

And vainly I reply. 
"Fools only ride where the ways divide 

What Is from the Whence and Why!" 
I 'm lifted into the saddle 

Of thoughts too strong to tame 
And down the deeps and over the steeps 

I find — ever the same. 

I have ridden the wind, 
I have ridden the stars, 



96 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

I have ridden the force that flies 

With far intent thro ' the firmament 

And each to each allies. 

And everywhere. 

That a thought may dare 

To gallop, mine has trod — 

Only to stand at last on the strand 

"Where just beyond lies God. 

Cole Young Bice. 



GREETINGS FOR TWO 

Knowed him more 'n twenty year; 
Liked him through an ' through : 
Him an ' me was neighbors here 
When the land was new. 
He druv past here every day, 
Wave' his hand jes' so; 
Then he 'd holler "Howdy!" an' 
I 'd holler back, "Hello!" 

I 'd be workin' in the field, 

He 'd be off to town \ 

An' I 'd hear that rattle-wheeled 

Buggy comin' down; 

I 'd look up from hoein' corn, 

An' I 'd see him go; 

Then he 'd holler "Howdy!" an 9 

I 'd holler back, "Hello!" 

Never was no other talk 
Had by him an' me; 



Material for Interpretation 97 

See him go by, trot or walk, 

Wave — an' let him be. 

Alwus knowed when I looked up 

Jest how it 'u 'd go : 

He 'u'd holler, ' ' Howdy !" an' 

I 'd holler back, " Hello!" 

Say, I call that neighborin' 

In the proper way ; 

Ain't no kith o' mine er kin 

Fur as I kin say; 

Alwus friendly, cheery-like, 

Sunshine, rain, er snow, 

He jest hollers, " Howdy!" an* 

I holler back, "Hello!" 

He 'ten's to his own affairs, 

An' I 'ten' t' mine; 

He don't put on any airs, 

I don't cut no shine; 

"Weather bad or weather fair, 

Drivin' fast or slow, 

He jest hollers, "Howdy!" an' 

I holler back, "Hello!" 

That 's the way we started out 

When we settled here; 

Like t ' keep it up about 

'Nother twenty year. 

Look out yonder in the road — 

There ! Now see him go ! 

Soon he '11 holler, "Howdy!" an' 

I '11 holler back, "Hello!" 

J. W. Foley. 



98 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

A SOFT DAY 

A soft day, thank God! 

A wind from the south 

With a honeyed mouth ; 

A scent of drenching leaves, 

Briar and beech and lime, 

White elder-flower and thyme 
And the soaking grass smells sweet, 
Crushed by my two bare feet, 

While the rain drips, 
Drips, drips, drips from the eaves. 

A soft day, thank God! 

The hills wear a shroud 

Of silver cloud; 

The web the spider weaves 

Is a glittering net ; 

The woodland path is wet, 
And the soaking earth smells sweet 
Under my two bare feet, 

And the rain drips, 
Drips, drips, drips from the leaves. 

W. M. Letts. 

A WINTER RIDE 1 

Who shall declare the joy of the running ! 

Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight ! 
Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather, 

Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light. 

i Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "A Dome of 
Many Colored Glass" by Amy Lowell, copyright by the Macmillan Co. 



Material for Interpretation 99 

Everything mortal has moments immortal, 
Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright. 

So with the stretch of the white road before me, 
Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun, 

Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows. 

Strong with the strength of my horse as we run. 
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight ! 

Joy ! With the vigorous earth I am one. 

Amy Lowell. 



THE GYPSIES' ROAD 

I shall go on the gypsies' road, 

The road that has no ending; 

For the sedge is brown on the lone lakeside, 

The wild geese eastward tending. 

I shall go as the unfettered wave, 

From shore to shore, forgetting 

The grief that lies 'neath a roof -tree 's shade, 

The years that bring regretting. 

No law shall dare my wandering stay, 
No man my acres measure; 
The world was made for the gypsies' feet, 
The winding road for pleasure. 

And I shall drift as the pale leaf strayed, 
Whither the wild wind listed; 
I shall sleep in the dark of the hedge, 
'Neath rose and thorn entwisted. 



100 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

This was a call in the heart of the night, 
A whispering dream 's dear treasure ; 
1 ' The world was made for nomads ' feet, 
The winding road for pleasure. ' ' 

I stole at dawn from my roof -tree's shade, 
And the cares that it did cover; 
I flew to the heart of the fierce north wind, 
As a maid will greet her lover. 

But a thousand hands did draw me back 
And bid me to their tending; 
I may not go on the gypsies' road — 
The road that has no ending. 

Dora Sigerson. 



TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER 

It 's wonderful dogs they 're breeding now: 

Small as a flea or large as a cow 

By my old lad Tim he '11 never be bet 

By any dog that ever he met. 

"Come on," says he, "for I 'm not kilt yet." 

No matter the size of the dog he '11 meet, 
Tim trails his coat the length o' the street. 
D ' ye mind his scars an ' his ragged ear, 
The like of a Dublin Fusilier? ' 
He 's a massacree dog that knows no fear. 

But he 'd stick to me till his latest breath ; 
An ' he 'd go with me to the gates of death. 
He 'd wait for a thousand years, maybe, 



Material for Interpretation 101 

Scratching the door an ' whining for me 
If myself were inside in Purgatory. 

So I laugh when I hear thim make it plain 
That dogs and men never meet again. 
For all their talk who 'd listen to thim, 
With the soul in the shining eyes of him? 
Would God be wasting a dog like Tim? 

W. M. Letts. 



MYSTERIOUS DOINGS 

As once I rambled in the woods 

I chanced to spy amid the brake 

A huntsman ride his way beside 

A fair and passing tranquil lake; 

Though velvet bucks sped here and there, 

He let them scamper through the green — 

Not one smote he, but lustily 

He blew his horn — what could it mean? 

As on I strolled beside that lake, 
A pretty maid I chanced to see 
Fishing away for finny prey, 
Yet not a single one caught she ; 
All round her boat the fishes leapt 
And gambolled to their hearts ' content, 
Yet never a thing did the maid but sing — 
I wonder what on earth it meant. 

As later yet I roamed my way, 

A lovely steed neighed loud and long, 

And an empty boat sped all afloat 



102 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Where sang a fishermaid her song; 
All underneath the prudent shade, 
Which yonder kindly willows threw, 
Together strayed a youth and maid — 
I can't explain it all, can you? 

Eugene Field. 

WATER FANTASY 1 

O brown brook, blithe brook, what will you say to me 
If I take off my heavy shoon and wade you childishly? 
take them off, and come to me. 
You shall not fall. Step merrily! 
Butj cool brook, but, quickly brook, and what if I should 

float 
White-bodied in your pleasant pool, your bubbles at my 
throat ? 

If you are but a mortal maid, 

Then I shall make you half afraid. 

The water shall be dim and deep, 

And silver fish shall lunge and leap 

About you, coward mortal thing. 

But if you come desiring 

To win once more your naiadhood, 

How you shall laugh and find me good — 

My golden surfaces, my glooms 

My secret grottoes' dripping rooms, 

My depths of warm wet emerald, 

My mosses floating fold on fold! 

And where I take the rocky leap 

i Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "Myself And I" 
by Fannie Stearns Davis. Copyright, 1913, by the Macmillan Co. 



Material for Interpretation 103 

Like wild white water shall you sweep ; 
Like wild white w r ater shall you cry, 
Trembling and turning to the sky, 
While all the thousand-fringed trees 
Glimmer and glisten through the breeze. 
I bid you come ! Too long, too long, 
You have forgot my undersong. 
And this perchance you never knew: 
E'en I, the brook, have need of you. 
My naiads faded long ago, — 
My little nymphs, that to and fro 
"Within my waters sunnily 
Made small white flames of tinkling glee. 
I have been lonesome, lonesome- yea, 
E'en I, the brook, until this day. 
Cast off your shoon: ah. come to me, 
And I will love yon lingering! y ! 

wild brook, wise brook, I cannot come, alas! 

1 am but mortal as the leaves that flicker, float, and pass. 
My body is not used to you ; my breath is fluttering sore ; 
You clasp me round too icily. Ah, let me go once more ! 
Would God I were a naiad-thing whereon Pan's music blew ; 
But woe is me ! you pagan brook, I cannot stay with you ! 

Fannie Steams Davis. 

SCARED 

These dusky evenings in December 
I do be scared with sudden fright, 
So many things you 'd disremember 
Shows quare an' darkish in the night. 
Sure kilt you ? d be if a dog should bark, 



104 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Or an old cow wheeze in the lonesome dark; 
For who can tell who 's in it at all, 
With the Tax man murdered there by the wall, 
An' the druidy stone foreninst the wood, 
Where you 'd maybe see what isn't good. 
An' the haunted house — Och! glory be, 
There 's a power of terrible things you 'd see 
In the dark. 

I 'm feared itself lest some black stranger 
Would step behind me on the grass ; 
Or goodness knows what sudden danger 
Might lep upon me as I pass. 
For strange an' lonesome the roads do seem 
Like a far-off place you 'd see in a dream ; 
An' you 'd never know who you 'd meet at the turn, 
Old crazy Nelly or mad John Byrne, 
Or the headless one that wrings her hands, 
Where the old deserted cabin stands, 
Or the fairy dog. Och ! glory be — 
There 's a power of terrible things you 'd see 
In the dark. 

W. M. Letts. 



THE SYMBOL 

What is the symbol underneath it all, 
The secret message of the throb of things : 
The flower tossings and the whirl of wings, 
The glow and scent when June makes carnival? 
'T is like a sweet lost word of some old speech 
Man has forgotten can almost reach. 



Material for Interpretation 105 

Listen ! The sap doth murmur it, the rain 
Chants it in sibilant monotone, the breeze 
Lifting a voice among the fluttered trees, 
Takes up the song, repeats it once again; 
And all the movement in the summer grass 
Seems pulsing to express it ere it pass. 

Ever and alway, iterant and low, 

The whisper and the hint, the half untold 

Suggestion that is as the ages old, 

Yet fresh-faced now as in the long ago : 

"Seek, ye shall find, for you and I are one, 

Bound each to other since the years begun. 

"You hear the call of kinship in my voice, 
My very breathing makes me part of you ; 
The gifts I offer are a residue 
Of your inheritance and natural choice ; 
Man is not man who hath not eye to see 
My luminous gloss on Nature's mysterious. 

"Rich-languaged fraught with memories and dreams, 
I lure you back in sacred moments when 
You learn, oblivious to the lore of men, 
The lesson of the forests, fields and streams ; 
Deep at my heart, deeper than all my mirth, 
The long-withholden meaning of the earth." 

In syllables of beauty, yea, with words 
That move like music through the summer ways, 
Nature doth speak, and in her every phrase, — 
The choiring rivers and the lyric birds, — 
She draws us from false gods, and our release 
Is certified by joy and love and peace. 

Richard Burton. 



106 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

THE PARTY AT CROGAN'S 

'T was a foine time we had down at Crogan's ; 

The five av us slept not a wink, 
Wid a fiddle to stir up our brogans, 

An' plenty o' toddy to dhrink. 
The grog it was free as the air is, 

An' w r e managed to store it away; 
We whistled and sang like canaries. 

An' Who was the five, did ye say? 

■ 

The two Crogans, that 's one ; Mike Sployd, 
that 's two ; Tim Horrigan 's three ; an ' meself 
— but there was five av us. 

We played forty-five. Mike was b'atin' 

An' Horrigan called him a cheat, 
Then they threw off their coats widout waitin ' 

An' tuk at it like dogs in the shtreet. 
They stirred up our blood wid their brawlin' 

Till we all got mixed up in the fray, 
The five av us pullin' an' haulin' 

But who was the five, did ye say ? 

Mike Sployd, that 's one ; Tim Horrigan 's 
two; the two Crogans is three; an' meself — 
sure, there was five av us. 

Pat Crogan he tuk up his fiddle, — 
Och, Pat is a merry gossoon ! — 

An' he drew the bow over the middle 
An' played us a bit av a chune; 



Material for Interpretation 107 

Himself round the kitchen went prancin ', — 
Such a jig as Pat Crogan can play! — 

An' it set the whole five av us dancing 
Now who was the five, did ye say? 

Meself , that 's one : Mike Sployd, that \s 
two ; the two Crogans is three ; Tim Horri- 
gan 's four — I thought there was five av us. 

It was early daylight in the mor-rning 

When the party at Crogan 's broke up; 
The cock in the shed called a war-rning, 

An' we all tuk a turn at the cup: 
But the truest of friends must be parted, 

An' each av us then went our way, 
The five av us all happy hearted. 

But who was the five, did ye say? 

The two Crogans, that 's one ; Mike Sployd, 
that 's two; Tim Horrigan 's three; meself — 
och, I guess there was only four av us, afther 
all. 

Florence J. Boyce. 



GIVE US MEN 

Give us men ! 
Men from every rank, 
Fresh and free and frank; 
Men of thought and reading, 
Men of light and leading, 
Men of loyal breeding, 
The nation's welfare speeding; 



108 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Men of faith and not of fiction, 
Men of lofty aim in action, 
Give us men — I say again 
Give us men ! 



Give us men ! 
Strong and stalwart ones: 
Men whom highest hope inspires, 
Men whom purest honor fires. 
Men who trample self beneath them. 
Men who make their country wreathe them 

As her noble sons, 

Worthy of their sires: 
Men who never shame their mothers, 
Men who never fail their brothers, 
True however false all others, 
Give us men — I say again, i 

Give us men ! 

Give us men ! 
Men who when the tempest gathers 
Grasp the standard of their fathers 

In the thickest fight; 
Men who strike for home and altar, 
(Let the coward cringe and falter,) 

God defend the right ! 
True as truth though low and lonely, 
Tender as the brave are only; 
Men who tread where saints have trod, 
Men for country, home, and God; 
Give us men — I say again, 

Give us such men ! 

J. G. Holland. 



Material for Interpretation 109 

WITH THE TIDE 

Somewhere I read, in an old book whose name 
Is gone from me, I read that when the days 
Of a man are counted, and his business done, 
There comes up the shore at evening, with the tide, 
To the place where he sits, a boat — 
And in the boat, from the place where he sits, he sees, 
Dim in the dusk, dim and yet so familiar, 
The faces of his friends long dead ; and knows 
They come for him, brought in upon the tide, 
To take him where men go at set of day. 
Then rising, with his hands in theirs, he goes 
Between them his last steps, that are the first 
Of the new life — and with the ebb they pass, 
Their shaken sail grown small upon the moon. 

Often I thought of this, and pictured me 
How many a man who lives with throngs about him, 
Yet straining through the twilight for that boat 
Shall scarce make out one figure in the stern, 
And that so faint its features shall perplex him 
With doubtful memories — and his heart hang back. 
But others, rising as they see the sail 
Increase upon the sunset, hasten down, 
Haiids out and eyes elated ; for they see 
Head over head, crowding from bow to stern, 
Repeopling their long loneliness with smiles, 
The faces of their friends ; and such go forth 
Content upon the ebb tide, with safe hearts. 

But never 

To worker summoned when his day was done 



110 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Did mounting tide bring in such freight of friends 

As stole to you up the white wintry shingle 

That night while they that watched you thought you slept. 

Softly they came, and beached the boat, and gathered 

In the still cove under the icy stars, 

Your last-born, and the dear loves of your heart, 

And all men that have loved right more than ease, 

And honor above honors ; all who gave 

Free-handed of their best for other men, 

And thought their giving taking ; they who knew 

Man's natural state is effort, up and up — 

All these were there, so great a company 

Perchance you marveled, wondering what great ship 

Had brought that throng unnumbered to the cove 

Where the boys used to beach their light canoe 

After old happy picnics — 

But these, your friends and children, to whose hands 

Committed, in the silent night you rose 

And took your last faint steps — 

These led you down, great American, 

Down to the Winter night and the white beach, 

And there you saw that the huge hull that waited 

Was not as are the boats of the other dead, 

Frail craft for a brief passage; no, for this 

Was first of a long line of towering transports, 

Storm-worn and ocean-weary every one, 

The ships you launched, the ships you manned, the ships 

That now, returning from their sacred quest 

With the thrice-sacred burden of their dead, 

Lay waiting there to take you forth with them, 

Out with the ebb tibe, on some farther quest. 

Edith Wharton. 



Material for Interpretation 111 



THE HARBOUR 

I t^ink if I lay dying in some land 
Where Ireland is no more than just a name, 
My soul would travel back to find that strand 
From whence it came. 

I 'd see the harbour in the evening light, 
The old men staring at some distant ship, 
The fishing-boats they fasten left and right 
Beside the slip, 

The sea-wrack lying on the wind-swept shore, 
The grey thorn bushes growing in the sand; 
Our Wexford coast from Arklow to Cahore — 
My native land. 

The little houses climbing up the hill, 

Sea daisies growing in the sandy grass, 

The tethered goats that wait large-eyed and still 

To watch you pass. 

The women at the well with dripping pails, 
Their men colloguing by the harbour wall, 
The coils of rope, the nets, the old brown sails, 
I 'd know them all. 

And then the Angelus — I 'd surely see 
The swaying bell against a golden sky, 
So God, Who kept the love of home in me, 
Would let me die, 

W. M. Letts. 



SECTION IV 
PROSE SELECTIONS 



SECTION IV 
PROSE SELECTIONS 

THE SELFISH GIANT 

EVERY afternoon, as they were coming from school, the 
I children used to go and play ;n the Giant's garden. 

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. 
Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like 
stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring- 
time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and 
in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees 
and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their 
games in order to listen to them. 

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his 
friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for 
seven years. After the seven years were over he had said 
all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and 
he determined to return to his own castle. When he ar- 
rived he saw the children playing in the garden. 

"What are you doing there ?" he cried in a very gruff 
voice. "My own garden is my own garden. Anyone can 
understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but 
myself/ ' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up 
a notice-board. 

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED 
115 



116 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

He was a very selfish Giant. 

The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried 
to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full 
of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to 
wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, 
and talk about the beautiful garden inside. 

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there 
were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden 
of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not 
care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees 
forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head 
out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it 
was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the 
ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people 
who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. "Spring 
has forgotten this garden, so we will live here all the 
year round," they cried. 

' ' I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in 
coming/ 7 said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window 
and looked out at his cold white garden ; " I hope there will 
be a change in the weather." 

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The 
Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the 
Giant's garden she gave none. 

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when 
he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his 
ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians 
passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing out- 
side his window, but it was so long since he had heard a 
bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the 
most beautiful music in the world. He jumped out of bed 
and looked out. 



Material for Interpretation 117 

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole 
in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sit- 
ting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he 
could see there was a little child. And the trees were so 
glad to have the children back again that they had covered 
themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms 
gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying 
about and twittering with delight, and -the flowers were 
looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was 
a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It 
was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was stand- 
ing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach 
up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all 
round it, crying bitterly. 

And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out, and he 
said: "How selfish I have been! Now I know why the 
Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy 
on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the 
wall, and my garden shall be the children's play-ground 
for ever and ever." 

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite 
softly, and went out into the garden. But when the chil- 
dren saw him they were so frightened that they all ran 
away, and the garden became winter again. Only the 
little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears 
that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole 
up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put 
him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into 
blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little 
boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the 
Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, 
when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, 



118 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

came running back, and with them came the Spring. "It 
is your garden now, little children/' said the Giant, and 
he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And 
when the people were going to market at twelve o 'clock they 
found the Giant playing with the children in the most 
beautiful garden they had ever seen. 

All day long they played, and in the evening they came 
to the Giant to bid him good-bye. 

" But where is your little companion? The boy I put 
up into the tree?" 

"You must tell him to be sure and come here tomorrow." 

But the children said that they did not know where he 
lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt 
very sad. 

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children 
came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom 
the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was 
very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first 
little friend, and he' often said, "How I would like to see 
him!" 

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. 
He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge arm- 
chair, and watched the children at their games, and ad- 
mired his garden. "I have many beautiful flowers, but 
the children are the most beautiful flowers of all." 

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he 
was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he 
knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the 
flowers were resting. 

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and 
looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the 
farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with 



Material for Interpretation 119 

lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and 
silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood 
the little boy he had loved. 

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the 
garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to 
the child. And when he came quite close his face grew 
red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared to wound 
thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the 
prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on 
the little feet. 

"Who hath dared to wound thee? Tell me that I may 
take my big sword and slay him." 

"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds 
of Love." 

"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell 
on him, and he knelt before the little child. 

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 
"You let me play once in your garden, today you shall 
come with me to my garden, which is Paradise." 

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found 
the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white 
blossoms. 

Oscar Wilde. 



"HIS PLACE IN THE LINE" 

Without reference to geometry or astronomy, relying 
merely upon his own daily observations, Bennie-Boy had 
arrived at the reasonable conclusion that he was the exact 
mathematical center of the universe. This internal con- 



120 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

elusion was not without reinforcements from the outside. 
He had been definitely told that the sun rose in the morn- 
ing "to kiss Bennie-Boy awake." From Lodora, his Sty- 
gian-hued friend in the kitchen, he learned that i ' De moon 
shun unner de crib an' kep' de boogoos f'm roostin'." 
Diana's silvery business, therefore, being to preserve him 
from shocks in the night-time. Such evenings as the moon 
evidently had engagements elsewhere, he noticed that the 
city authorities obligingly turned on the arc-lights for him. 

As for his age — he could not remember when he had been 
one, two, or three, but on account of pink cakes and can- 
dles he easily remembered the fourth, the fifth, because 
it instituted the circus of beginning to dress himself, and 
now here he was at six which had brought with it the twin 
amusements of brushing his teeth and going to school. 

He awoke quite ready for discoveries. Benjamin senior 
was awaking likewise, but seemed ready for nothing but 
sleep again and was shaking the bed with gigantic erup- 
tions to an accompaniment of groans. When Bennie-Boy 
put a^ide the shackles of slumber, he merely swept open 
his lashes and simultaneously slipped from his crib, the 
prod of immediate achievement restive within him. 

Pearly as to skin, satiny as to hair, baggy as to night- 
robe, a complete little Pierrot even as to the dabs of pink 
on his cheeks, he sought the bedside of the frowsy, mottled, 
sleep-scarred Titan and asked "Is today tomorrow?" 

Benjamin the Big intermitted his groans and heroically 
explained in words of one syllable or thereabouts, that to- 
morrow was an abstract and fugitive futurity whose very 
essence was, that it never permitted itself to be overtaken 
and captured by an ever pursuing present. 

"I know — but tell me — is today tomorrow?" 

"Yes" — gave in the Titan weakly. 



Material for Interpretation 121 

"Then it 's the day I 'm going to school." 

6 ' School ? You don 't say ! Why, how old are you ? ' ' 

"For a long time I was five going on six, then I went six 
while I was having a party, and now I have commenced six 
going on seven." 

The Titan smiled with his mouth and looked sad with 
his eyes, a habit of Titan's at times, and remarked re- 
flectively : 

"Well, you '11 have to work till your heart breaks to 'go' 
twenty; but after twenty, pshaw, it 's easier than falling off 
a log. The swiftness with which you '11 'go' thirty and 
forty will make your head swim." 

' ' Only my head ? Won 't my body swim too ? ' ' 

"Urn — maybe." 

Here his mother came, fully appareled, and bore him 
off for his bath. To Bennie-Boy's knowledge, his mother 
never undressed and went to bed and became useless; but 
was always commendably garbed for service. 

After the bath, the teeth brushing. This was completely 
fascinating and he would have kept it up for ever had not 
his mother curtailed it. 

"Aren't you finished yet, Bennie-Boy?" 

He tasted his teeth critically. "I think so. They feel 
just the right slippery." 

"Are any of them loose yet?" 

"No." He felt very pale. He had placed perfect con- 
fidence in the stability of his teeth heretofore. 

"Why son-bunny, it is nothing to be frightened about. 
You have to lose all your first teeth." 

"Then how shall I bite my nails?" 

"You are not supposed to bite them. But you get new 
teeth." 

Bennie-Bov recalled a certain enviable attribute he had 



122 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

noticed as belonging to adult jaws and inquired hopefully : 

"Do some of them come in gold?" 

"No, dear. Dress yourself." 

Ha! So it was upon him was it? that exhaustive, ex- 
hausting, continuing, non-productive calisthenics called 
dressing. As a mental process he knew just how to do it. 
For instance, one started with an undershirt. But the 
material crux was finding the undershirt, picking it out 
rather, from the bewildering miscellany which had been 
shucked off him the night before. Even after it was found, 
the trouble was anything but over, for then he had to de- 
termine the shirt's aperture of exit from its aperture of 
entrance. 

He had rotated it in his hands fifty times and had started 
on the fifty-first when his mother made the usual inquiry : 

"What are you trying to do?" 

"I am following round the ends of it to find out where 
it goes on me." 

"Whether Bennie-Boy or his mother was the one most 
charmed when the combination was approximated is a ques- 
tion. The superimposing of the Russian blouse was a mat- 
ter she always took in her own hands, and this finished, 
came breakfast. 

At last, he was ready to start for school. The school- 
ward walk had a walk's usual attractions, beginning with 
the huge policeman. Bennie-Boy gripped his mother's 
hand rather tighter when he hove in sight. Not that he 
was afraid of him — no, indeed ; but then he had heard there 
was no knowing what way a cat would jump; so why be 
too cocksure of a policeman? Guarded by love more 
safely than a king by his armies, Bennie-Boy eventually 
reached the schoolbuilding. 



Material for Interpretation 123 

The preliminaries did not interest him, chiefly perhaps 
because they took place so high in the air above him. 
Finally, however, he felt himself captured by a new hand, 
which controlled rather than led, and found himself be- 
reft of hat and bereft of his senses, but in possession of a 
desk. 

"We are glad to have your little boy and we '11 make a 
fine scholar of him/' said the lady of the capturing hand 
to his mother, who was leaving. But the temperance of 
the lady's joy was astounding. 

When the door was closed, she said to her class in a 
shovelling snow sort of way: — 

"And because / am busy with a visitor is no reason why 
you should be." 

Whereupon fifty little boys and girls hurled themselves 
squeakingly upon their slates. 

And Bennie-Boy had no mother (but he had been pre- 
pared for that catastrophe) — had no slate — had no exist- 
ence, apparently. For the lady who was glad to have him 
forgot about him even before she promised to make him a 
fine scholar, remembering too much the fifty others, their 
deficiencies, and the progress laid down in the Course of 
Study. So with his chubby hands trying to fold them- 
selves on the desk-top in unconscious imitation of stray ex- 
amples set before him here and there, Bennie-Boy watched 
the teacher through a long forenoon drilling and grilling 
them, wringing tears from them, perspiration from them, 
all sorts of penitential juices, till his own heart wept drops 
of blood, in advance of demand. But underneath this pre- 
monitory anguish there was actuality that was sharper yet, 
the slowly gathered knowledge that he was ignored, neg- 
lected, forgotten. The chilliness of it sent many a positive 



124 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

shiver through his small body, took the warm light from 
his eyes, £ut a tired curve upon his lips. 

In time to save his sanity, giving him a new horror to 
contemplate, there occurred a Massacre of St. Bartholomew 
called Eecess, His hat miraculously dropped from some 
Bough of Dreams on to the desk before him, an efficient 
maid of five summers poked him off his seat into the aisle, 
and he found himself marching toward the yard in a con- 
stantly separating line, little girls streaking off in one di- 
rection, little boys in another. Little boys decorously filed 
down the yard steps to a nail which apparently cured them 
of leg-trouble and lung trouble, for each one who reached 
it gave a yelp and a leap and hurled his restored self into 
the general surge of which Bennie-Boy was the sole atom 
to preserve silence and dejection. If it had been hard to 
find himself ignored in a hub-bub of work, it was harder 
to be ignored in a hub-bub of play. With senses sharpened 
by misery, he soaked in a great deal more than his mother 
would ever be able to squeeze out of him — heard scraps of 
conversation which discounted the teamsters', and became 
acquainted with death from its worst side, its sportive side 
— furnished by a boy with a defunct frog. 

There was an austere, perambulating lady whom Bennie- 
Boy heard referred to as the "Yar '-Teach'. " The mission 
of the "Yar '-Teach' " seemed to be to walk devastatingly 
among her young charges stiffening them into seemliness, 
then to turn, still more devastatingly, and surprise relaxa- 
tions which had taken place behind her back. The boy in 
a most magnificent state of relaxation was sternly waved 
to a seat on the Bench, where he proceeded to have the time 
of his life, making faces at the Yar '-Teacher's back, and 
kicking his companions in exile. To make faces behind a 
person's back was something entirely new to Bennie-Boy. 



Material for Interpretation 125 

Heretofore he had held no conceptions of any warfare that 
was not done valiantly face to face with the enemy. The 
doctrines of Expediency and Concealment whispered their 
doctrines in his small ear for the first time. f 

At last, a bell sounded. In miraculous obedience to it 
every yell and scuffle died and petrified. The hen-like twit- 
ter of the little girls on the other side of a high board fence 
ceased also. Millennium ! It was wonderful ! Then an- 
other bell, and more wonderful, still, an orderly forming of 
lines was instituted, little boys stretched from fence to 
fence in lines like trees, as straight, as unswerving, as if 
drawn up by a giant's ruler. Bennie-Boy, watching in 
fascination, grew from a spectator into an abject spectacle, 
the fact dawning slowly upon him, as it had dawned long 
ago on the others — that he alone in all the orderly world 
was making chaos. From the center of the universe, he 
had fallen to be a clog in its wheel. Every eye was boring 
him accusingly. The glances seared him with all the real 
agony of hot irons. What, in Heaven's dear name did they 
want him to do ? 

"Find your place in the line," came the voice of the 
"Yar'-Teach'," and it was not in balmy helpfulness but in 
icy censure. 

"Find your place in line," was what she had said, and 
she might just as well have said : 

"Concomitate your centrifugal infinity" for all the 
meaning her words had for him. Mercifully, someone took 
him by the shoulder and tweaked him into the oblivion 
where he belonged, and march, march, marching began 
again, till, with the magical reappearance of lines of little 
girls, the class found itself in its own room, and in its own 
seats. 

The only time when Bennie-Boy seemed to participate 



126 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

in affairs to the slightest degree was purely accident,, then 
his participation was not cheerfully active, but as tire- 
somely passive as all the rest had been. With his mates 
he listened to a "Nature Talk." It consisted chiefly in a 
harrowing disclosure about the private life of a cow — how 
she reared up a beautiful bossy-infant for herself and 
manufactured milk for it, chewing early and late, only to 
have both infant and commissary thieved from her. Al- 
though it was amelioratingly explained — the cow had no 
real maternal love, only instinct, which was the very identi- 
cal same thing only it wasn't — how she was tortured by 
flies, oft-times by thirst and how finally she exchanged her 
integral existence upon the grassy verdures of sylvan fields 
for a section distribution upon the hooks of meat-markets. 

The nature talk over, the others had to draw a sectional 
quadrilateral cow upon their slates, but Bennie-Boy not 
having this article, very sensibly went to sleep and let so- 
ciety giddily whirl about him, as it fully intended to do and 
was competent of doing. 

The capable maiden of five summers woke him by affixing 
his hat to his head with a vim that suggested it was a 
hatch instead of a hat and needed a deal of battering down. 
Then she shoved him efficiently into the aisle and the lines 
commenced to march again, this time for freedom for the 
day. 

At home, he sought hurriedly for his toys and occupied 
himself with their astonishing newness. He had been sep- 
arated from them for the dark length of an Arctic night. 
His mother tried to pry information from him, but his 
salvation was silence. 

"I can't get a word from him," she confided to the Titan, 
across Bennie-Boy 's head at the tea-table. 

"Yes, I know every mother thinks her child intelligent, 



Material for Interpretation 127 

but Bennie-Boy is, and I 'm sure the teacher was agree- 
ably surprised at his proficiency. He knows every one of 
his letters. Didn't she say anything nice to you, Bennie- 
Boy?" 

Bennie-Boy accommodatingly began to think. Had she 
spoken to him at alH She had. 

"She said I was a bright child/' said Bennie-Boy slowly. 
Then he heroically thought farther. 

"The brightest she ever had." 

"There/' said his mother triumphantly. 

"Here!" said his father tumultuously, laying a quarter 
of a dollar on Bennie-Boy 's plate. 

Bennie-Boy, up to this time the incarnate smiler, eyed 
the money with a distrustful frown. There was something 
not quite right ^bout it, though for the life of him he could 
not explain why or wherefore. 

On the top of what was surely complications enough, in 
came Lodora with a new one in the guise of a glass of 
milk. 

"Hyar 's yer milk f 'r yo', honey, w'at cle caow sent yo' 
wid her love." 

But he had learned a thing or two about that cow. This 
milk was her offspring's. And she had no love. The whole 
message was a silly fiction. And Lodora, by virtue of size 
and maturity of her color must know it. She, therefore, 
had been a tolerant, perhaps, contemptuous participator in 
a lying system of cajolery. Surely his mother — ? Surely 
his father — ? Were they not to be believed? — were they? 
With the establishing of the doubt, the whole glittering 
kingdom of his babyhood fell in clattering ruins around 
him, never to be built back. The world was not his prop- 
erty, he was the world's — perhaps. The universe was not 
one little boy, but hundreds and thousands of little boys. 



128 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

stretching in vanishing lines of order. The new universe 
did not want him, did not need him, but offered a place 
in its lines— if he could find the place. If ! 

What was there to smile about? So, with downcast 
lashes, and down-curved lips, Bennie-Boy reached reluct- 
antly for his glass. 

"He is cross," accused his mother. 

"He 's tired," defended his father. 

But Bennie-Boy was neither. The cloud upon his soft 
face came from a distance so remote that he could not even 
guess about it. Somewhere — away, away off, on the edge 
of the fields of Endeavor — his life's sun had risen high 
enough to strike for the first time the mile-post of his 
Manhood. And the long shadow of it touched him even 
where he sat. 

Marion Hill. 



THE WORLD'S SUBLIMEST SPECTACLE 

I thank the ruler of my mortal circumstances that it 
has been my fortune once to see the Grand Canon of the 
Colorado. 

No mortal eye has ever held so great a scene. 

I should be ashamed— as any American' should be 
ashamed — if, by my own choice, I had looked on Egyptian 
Pyramid, or Asian height, or European alp, and never 
seen my own country's glory in this sublimest spectacle of 
all the world. 

It is one great gulch of grandeur let down into the eter- 
nities. It is the soul and substance of all the mountains 
and all the chasms, of all the deeps and all the heights, 
sculptured and chiseled, majestically masoned, and mag- 



Material for Interpretation 129 

nificently upholstered in myriad splendors of light and 
shadow, of shape and color, by the Lord God Almighty. 

Here are vast Gibraltars that no artillery of earth could 
ever shake. Here are alhambras more splendid than any 
sultan's dream. Here are thrones too magnificent for any 
mortal king — the heights unspeakable, depths unutterable, 
and colors divine; crimson falling softly into brown, old 
gold fading into violet, domes of chalcedony on temples 
of porphyry, auroras crouching splendid among the rocks, 
and mighty cathedrals of purple and gold, where sunrise 
and sunset are married to the setting of a rainbow ring. 

No canvas or camera has ever caught the grandeur of 
the Canon. No pen or tongue has ever done justice to 
this matchless peroration of the universe. 

Put away words! There is nothing to do before this 
unspeakable glory but to be silent and still, while the poor 
cramped soul beats against its bosom for expression, and in 
the impotence of all human speech simply whispers, i ' God ! ' ' 

John Temple Graves. 



WHEN MA RODGERS BROKE LOOSE x 

It was a hot, smothery July morning. Heat waves 
shimmered above the thick white dust of the country road, 
and the sun broiled down upon the vegetable-patch beside 
it with fierce intensity. 

As Ma Rodgers stood in the kitchen doorway, a huge 
tin pan in one hand and a sunbonnet in the other, she 
sighed a meek little sigh, for she was tired. She had been 
at work many hours already, and the prospect of gathering 
peas in that pitiless heat was not an inviting one. But 

i Copyrighted J. B. Lippincott Co., Aug., 1911. 



130 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

the sigh was followed by a smile as she put on her sun- 
bonnet and hurried down the path, saying to herself, "Oh, 
well, I ought to be glad I have any peas to gather." 

Ma Rodgers had what might be termed an "Oh, well' 7 
disposition. If she wanted to go anywhere and was dis- 
appointed, she said to herself, "Oh, well, I hadn't any- 
thing to v/ear," and if sometimes she wished she had a 
new dress, she said, "Oh, well, I don't go many places to 
wear it." 

A unique epitaph found in a quaint graveyard ran thus : 
"She was so pleasant," and that is the best description 
that could be given of Ma Rodgers — she was so pleasant. 
She was pleasant when she came down in the morning, 
which is more than can be said of most people; she was 
pleasant all through a hard, worrying day, and she was 
pleasant when she went to bed at night, tired past all belief 
and aching in every joint. 

She had made herself a slave to her husband and to her 
boy >and girl, and, as is often the way with families, they 
had let her do it. They never noticed that she was wear- 
ing out, that she was always tired and always shabby. They 
were used to her sacrifices and they actually never realized 
them. At least this much credit is due them. 

The sun was still broiling down on the vegetable-patch, 
and the July morning was an hour older, when Eliza Bon- 
ner, carrying a large basket, came up the front path and 
scowled darkly at the picture of Susan Rodgers lolling in 
the hammock under a tree, reading a novel. Eliza had a 
sharp face, a spare frame, a shrewd mind, a big, kind heart 
which she went to all sorts of trouble to conceal. 

"Susan, where 's your Ma?" she asked sourly. 

"What je say? Oh, Ma! I dunno. I guess she 's 
down in the garden." 



Material for Interpretation 131 

"Humph!" quoth Eliza shortly, and passed around the 
side of the house. Just as she reached the back steps, Ma 
Rodgers came wavering up from the garden. She had 
pushed her bonnet back to get air; her face was purple, 
and perspiration streamed from every feature. The swol- 
len veins on her forehead and neck throbbed visibly. She 
smiled bravely, and sank down in a little heap on the step 
in the shade of the arbor. 

"My!" she panted, ''it 's hot, ain't it? But the peas 
are fine ! ' ' 

Eliza shut her mouth into a straight line. She always 
hated interfering, but injustice made her so mad that the 
words just boiled up, and she had hard work to keep them 
from boiling over. 

"My!" said Ma Rodgers, wiping her dripping face with 
her apron. ' ' Seems 's if I 'd never cool off, ' ' 

Eliza's mouth opened. 

"Why didn't you git Susan to help you?" 

"Oh, well, she 's readin' a story, an' I hated to ast 
her." 

"Why didn't Jim Rodgers or Joe pick 'em las' night, 
afore sundown?" 

"Why you know, they like 'em right fresh picked, an' 
seems 's if they do taste better." 

All of a sudden Eliza boiled over : 

"The trouble with you is, you 're too pleasant, Jane 
Rodgers, an' your family jest tromp over you. If your 
bein' pleasant clone anybody any good, I wouldn't say a 
word, but it don't. It don't do any good to you, that 's 
certain, fer everybody jest natchurally puts on you because 
you ain't got gumption enough to object; and it don't do 
them any good, fer they 're turnin' into tho laziest, selfish- 
est lot o' lumps I ever set eyes on." 



132 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Ma Rodgers gasped out, "I 've tried so hard to bring 'em 
up right. " 

"I know yon Ve tried, but you ain't succeeded, because 
you ain't gone about it right. If you want folks to be o' 
some use in the world, don't wait on 'em hand an' foot. 
Make 'em wait on 3^ou. 

"Look at that big loppos of a husband o' your'n! You 
on your knees, after a hard day's washin', takin' off his 
shoes an' puttin 7 on his slippers fer 'im. 'T ain't no won- 
der people use you fer a doormat when you crawl right 
under their feet. An' look at 'im — he ain't got any more 
manners than a pig, all because you got 'im out o' the 
habit. 

"Look at that fat son o' your'n in front o' the fire, 
winter days, with his feet cocked up an' a book in his 
hand, yellin', 'Ma, the fire needs attention,' an' never 
even lookin' up with a word o' thanks when you come 
staggerin' in w T ith both arms full o' logs an' stirrin' up the 
fire to keep him warm. 

' ' Look at that saucy snub of a daughter. Instead o ' her 
hustlin' roun' to git breakfast fer you, she lays abed an' 
lets you bring 'er coffee an' rolls in the mornin', because 
she read about it in a book onct. 

"An' what good 's it goin' to do 'em? They may be 
more comf'bable now, but it can't keep on ferever, fer 
you 're wearin' yourself out, an' when you die, nobody 's 
goin' to do things fer 'em, fer nobody '11 like 'em well 
enough. They 're growin' too hateful an' selfish. 

"I hope I ain't spoke too plain — but it 's all Gawspel 
truth. What you want to do is to break loose some o' these 
days an ' scare the wits out of 'em. Then maybe they '11 
sit up an ' take notice. 



Material for Interpretation 133 

"Well, I must be goin'. Good-bye, Jane, an' don't let 
yourself git overhet like this again — if you kin help it." 

Then she remembered why she had come, and, stooping, 
she took out of her basket an enormous pan filled with some- 
thing redolent of cinnamon and brown sugar. This she 
carefully carried inside and placed on the table, saying as 
she came out, "I baked buns this morning, an' I wanted 
you should have some. I didn't take 'em out of the pan, 
because they 're so gooey. You kin bring back the pan 
when you 've a mind to." And primly she descended the 
steps and went her way. 

Ma Rodgers sat stunned. She never even thanked Eliza 
for the buns. Her mind had no room for anything but 
what Eliza had said about him and the children. "Was it 
true? Was she making them so nobody would like them? 
She had never thought of anything except that she loved 
them so dearly that she wanted to make everything easier 
for them. Eliza had s'aid they were hateful and selfish. 
They were n't hateful, but then, of course, she never crossed 
them. Selfish ! Now that she thought of it, they never did 
try to do anything for her — or for anybody. 

She sat and thought and thought and tried to reason it 
out. If it had been just for her own comfort, she would 
never have bothered. But the thing that rankled was that 
she was doing them harm instead of good. 

Finally, with a funny mixture of fright and resolution 
on her face, she got up and went around the side of the 
house. 

"Susan," she said, with a little quaver in her voice, "I 
wish you 'd help me shell the peas. I 'm afraid dinner '11 
be late." ^** 

"Oh, Ma, I can't," Susan complained. "I 'm just in 
the middle of this book, ' ' 



134 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Ma Rodgers went back to the kitchen-step and stood 
there. 

Yes, there was no doubt of it: Susan was selfish; and 
nothing mild-mannered would cure her of it. She had 
tried politeness, now she 'd have to "break loose/' as Eliza 
had told her. 

Suddenly she whirled about, rushed around to the ham- 
mock, and snatched the book out of Susan's hand. 

"Now," she said, before the astonished girl could get her 
breath, "you hike around there and shell them peas as 
fast as you kin shell. An', what 's more, you don't git a 
peek in this book until you 've done a day's work. After 
you 've helped with the meals an' washed the dishes an' 
cleaned up, you kin think about readin'. " 

Ma Eodgers had hard work to retain the look of stern 
command throughout this long speech, for Susan looked 
so funny and got out of the hammock so fast that it was 
as much as Ma Rodgers could do to keep from looking 
astonished herself. 

As Susan went out of sight, Ma Rodgers suddenly sat 
down in the hammock, more to keep herself from falling 
than anything else, for her knees had begun to give under 
her. Then she got to thinking it all over again, and, as 
she thought, she swung gently back and forth. It was 
pleasant there, cool and shady, and a little breeze fanned 
her as she swung. Then she wondered how it would feel 
to lie down and swing. With a childish look of mischief 
and apprehension on her face, she let herself sink into the 
depths of the hammock, gave herself a last mighty push, 
and then tucked both feet in clear of the ground. Up she 
swung, down she swung; up again, down again. The air 
rushed past her, a little less each time, and delightfully cool 
and soothing. The birds sang and the insects hummed. 



Material for Interpretation 135 

The motion of the hammock had quieted to a little swaying, 
this way, that way. With a smothered chuckle, she remem- 
bered a game of childhood — she was "letting the old cat 
die." She wondered what people would say. She won- 
dered what Susan — 

The miracle had happened. Ma Rodgers was asleep in 
the hammock in the middle of the day. 

Through a heavenly dream of rest and joy and wild free- 
dom, a feeling of impending doom filtered. Blacker and 
more insistent it became. Eestlessly she stirred, and finally 
opened her eyes on the awe-struck face of Susan standing 
beside the hammock. 

"I Ve shelled the peas, an' pared the potatoes, but I 
dunno what else to do, an' Pa an' Joe are just comin' over 
the hill." 

Ma Rodgers flew up in a panic. Pa and Joe ! And din- 
ner could n 't be on time, and they always fussed so if it was 
five minutes late. She scrambled out of the hammock and 
rushed back to the kitchen. Breathlessly she put on the 
water for the vegetables, and ran here and there, after the 
meat and milk and butter ; and then in they came. 

"Gee, I 'm hungry," growled Joe. "Ain't dinner ready, 
Ma?" 

Pa Rodgers walked over to the fire and grumbled, ' c Why 
don't ye put some wood in this fire? Looks to me 's if 
dinner won't be ready fer an hour." 

A violent trembling fit took possession of Ma Rodgers, and 
her hand shook so that she dropped the butter-dish, butter 
and all; and then she "broke loose." 

"No, and what 's more, it won't ever be ready without 'n 
you two big lazy things git out there in the woodshed an' 
chop some wood. Do you think I 'm goin' to work my 
fingers to the bone doin' two or three women's work an' 



136 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

then do men's work beside? Not much, I ain't! You git 
out there an' hustle in that wood. No wood, no dinner. 
Quick, now! Don't stand starin' like a couple o' calves." 
With that, she flounced out of the room, skilfully dropping 
an apron over a little pile of wood she had chopped that 
morning. 

Silently, in a dazed sort of way, the two men passed on 
out to the woodshed. 

Ma Rodgers, watching through the crack of the door, 
rocked back and forth with suppressed laughter, their faces 
were so unutterably funny, and they walked along so 
meekly. 

For a while, in the w T oodshed, there was no sound save 
that of chopping. Then Joe raised his head. "Say, Pa," 
he said, "what you reckon 's the matter with Ma?" 

Pa shook his head gloomily. "Dunno. Never seen 'er 
in sech a tantrum" and then the chopping went on. 

In the meanwhile, Ma Rodgers told Susan to set the 
table, and then she surreptitiously stuffed her own little 
pile of wood into the fire, and soon the dinner was merrily 
cooking. By the time Joe and his father entered with great 
armfuls of wood, everything was nearly done. 

She glanced at the wood as they put it down, and said, 
"Well, you were so long .about it, the fire started up of its 
own accord. Next time, see that the wood-box is filled be- 
fore you leave in the morning." It pretty nearly killed her 
to say this, she was naturally so grateful for anything done 
for her, but she knew it would never do to back down so 
soon, if she expected any lasting benefit. 

At the table, they all looked so subdued she could hardly 
keep her face straight. She looked at her plate to hide the 
mischievous look in her eyes, and then she said : 

"Susan, I want you should learn to make cake. Two 



Material for Interpretation 137 

weeks from tomorrow is the church picnic. I 'm agoin', so 
we '11 need two cakes. I '11 make one, an ' you kin make the 
other." 

Three mouths hung wide open in amazement. For years, 
Ma Rodgers had made the good things for the rest of them 
to take to the picnic, but she had always stayed home. She 
had always said she had nothing to wear. 

Susan and Joe gasped out, "You goin' to the picnic!" 

And Pa Rodgers said, "Why, Ma, you ain't got nothin' 
to wear." 

"I said I was goin' to the picnic, an' I meant I was goin' 
to the picnic. As fer havin' nothin' to wear, Jim Rodgers, 
it 's about time I did have somethin' to wear, an' you kin 
have till tomorrow to get me ten dollars to buy somethin' 
with, an' then I '11 have two weeks to make it in. Jest be- 
cause I 've been a fool an' a fright all my life ain't any 
reason why I should always be a fool an' a fright. Now, 
then! An' fer goodness' sake, shet your mouths. You 
look like I dunno what, that way." 

For two weeks the dazed look never left the faces of Pa 
Rodgers and Joe and Susan. They were at the beck and 
call of Ma Rodgers, who scolded and complained and com- 
manded. Everything went like clockwork, and Ma Rodgers 
grew less and less tired, and sewed secretly on her new 
clothes with a feeling of lawlessness and wild abandon. 
The only thing that troubled her was a sensation of distress 
at the thought of how the others must feel, and what they 
must think of her. 

The day of the picnic arrived. With Susan's help the 
hampers had been packed with a delicious lunch, and Ma 
Rodgers had gone upstairs to dress. Somehow, she could 
not get rid of the feeling that the rest of the family would 
not enjoy the picnic — they seemed so depressed and meek 



138 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

and quiet. However, -when she finally put on her new 
dress, she forgot everything else in the elation of that mo- 
ment. The dress was a soft, gray dimity, and Ma Rodgers, 
who was a born dressmaker, although she had hitherto used 
her art only to beautify Susan, had made it with skillful 
hands and had lightened it up with the tiniest, deftest 
touches of pale old rose. Her hair, which for years she 
had worn strained back into a tight little knot because it 
took less time from her work, she had brushed and brushed 
until it glinted with silver lights, and had then combed it 
loosely and heaped it rather high on her head. Then she 
donned a silver gray toque with a few crushed roses of 
pale old-rose color at the side, and the effect was such that 
she pinched herself to see if she was awake. Her cheeks 
were brilliant, and her eyes were surely never that blue ! 

With her gray silk gloves swinging in one hand, she al- 
most ran downstairs, and from the hall she could see Jim 
Rodgers sitting by the kitchen window. She stopped »and 
caught her breath, and then she raised her head high and 
entered the room with an air such as she always thought she 
would have if she ever had the clothes to bear it out. 

Jim looked up, and his paper went fluttering to the floor. 
For two weeks he had looked astonished, but now he looked 
transfixed. Then slowly he rose from his chair, never tak- 
ing his eyes from her. 

"Why, Janie," he said softly, breathlessly. "Why, 
Janie!" 

The color came and went in Ma Rodgers' face, and her 
lips trembled. 

"Well, Jim, how do I look!" 

Jim reached out both hands and took her gently by the 
shoulders. 



Material for Interpretation 139 

"You look like a peach-blossom in the sun," he said 
wonderingly. 

Ma Rodgers swallowed hard several times, and then she 
gave a little giggle. 

"My! I do hope I ain't agoin' to mess myself all up 
crying but seems 's if I do feel terrible queer. There \s 
somethin' I 've got to git off my mind before this picnic. 
Here come the children, an' I '11 tell you all to onct." 

"Without giving them time to express their astonishment 
at her appearance, she started right in to tell them how 
somebody had opened her eyes to what she was doing to 
them, and how she had resolved to change tRings. Ever 
since, she had been scolding and ordering until she herself 
w r as in danger of becoming a tyrant, so she thought it was 
time to talk things over, and come to some sort of an agree- 
ment whereby they all might help one another and all be 
happy and pleasant. 

"Seem 's if I just couldn't go to this picnic with you all 
thinkin' me so disagreeable." 

They all looked at one another, and then they started 
to laugh. 

"Oh, Ma," said Susan, "I 'm so glad an' so relieved, an' 
I '11 just love to help you now." 

"Me, too," laughed Joe. 

"Yes," said Pa Rodgers; "we all will. It 's just that we 
didn't think, Janie, an' you didn't give us a chance." 

"Well, you '11 git all the chance you want now. No- 
body '11 ever say again that I spoil you. Now, who 's goin' 
to the picnic?" 

Chattering and laughing, they scrambled joyfully into the 
carriage, and off they went. 

It was one of those soft, breezy, idea*l days which belong 



140 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

in early June, but which come at rare times in July, after 
a storm, when all the world looks new and the air is fresh 
and sweet. 

Ma Rodgers sat beside Susan on the back seat, and as she 
looked at the beautiful country and breathed in the rest- 
fulness of it all and felt the happiness of those around her, 
it seemed as if she could hardly bear the joy of it. She 
glanced at Susan and found her staring at her with a 
strange, intense expression. 

' ' My land, Susan ! What are you lookin ' at ? ' ' 

"I 'in lookin' at you. You 're prettier 'n anything I ever 
saw," said Susan shyly. 

Tears rose to Ma Rodgers' eyes, and she grasped Susan's 
hand tightly in her own, realizing a companionship which 
had never been possible before. 

And so they sat until they arrived at the picnic grounds, 
when the first person to pass their way was Eliza Bonner. 
Pa Rodgers and Susan and Joe were on their way to greet 
some friends, and Ma Rodgers had stopped to tuck a snowy 
napkin a little more securely over a well filled hamper in 
the back of the carriage. 

Eliza nodded sourly to the three, and said to Susan : 

"How 's your Ma?" 

"Why, there she is, you kin ask her yourself." 

Eliza looked at the figure in gray and flushed darkly, 
thinking that Susan was joking. 

Then Ma Rodgers turned around. Eliza gasped. 

t ' Jane Rodgers ! ' ' she stuttered. ' i 'T ain 't never in the 
world you ! ' ' 

"Yes, 'tis, Eliza. I broke loose, like you told me to. 
Come on somewheres, an' I '11 tell you all about it." 

Hicks Bates Broderson. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



Material for Interpretation 141 

THE CONVERSION OF JOHNNY HARRINGTON 

The group of children on the school playground dis- 
integrated violently, as if under the force of some great 
shock. Then they drew together again, warily, yet yield- 
ing to a fascination that overcame every other considera- 
tion. The compelling force seemed indicated by the shrill 
voice of a small boy, raised in excited speech; above the 
heads of the gaping children flashed a pair of recl-mittened 
hands, with which their owner energetically sawed the air 
as enforcement of his argument. 

' ' Oh-h-h ! Johnny Harrington ! ' ' squealed a horrified 
little girl, timidly skirting the circle. "How dast you say 
such things!" 

For reply, Johnny Harrington crowded on more daring. 
He -jeered at her. He was not more than eight, and, though 
very ragged as to clothing, he was whole and sturdy as to 
body. His blue toes cropped out shamelessly from the 
burst leather of his shoe-tips ; the cap on the back of his head 
was a mere symbol of what it had once been. But the 
authority of his manner and expression was surprising. He 
was a born fighter, a preacher of truth, a hater of shams, 
and a self-appointed Star of Bethlehem to his school-mates, 
squirming in a world of darkness. 

"Huh! You kids make me sick. Ain't I told you! 
Don't I know ! He 's just nothin' but a fat old man with a 
big belly and a false beard. " 

This was too much. Several of the circle shrank back in 
horror, and Evelyn Johnson, one of his most loyal admirers, 
uttering what was as near to a ladylike scream as her 
years permitted, wholly upset by the combined shock of 
Johnny's language and the grim skepticism of his conclu- 
sions, departed with ostentatious hauteur. Johnny sniffed 



142 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

in lofty derision. "Huh! Evelyn's only a girl. Girls 
don't know no better. But we ought to ; we 're boys ! Let 
'er go. Sissy ! Writin' to Santy Claus ! I ? d rather never 
git nothin' than be such a fool kid. My mother gits me all 
I want. She give me these mittens 'cos my hands was cold. 
Christmas she '11 fill my stockin'. It 's your mothers that 
does it, I tell yeh! An' yer fathers. It ain't no Santy 
Claus. 'Cos why? 'Cos there ain't no sech thing. He 's 
just a fake." 

The December wind whistled by Johnny's ears. The 
December cold bit Johnny's toes. There was an ominous 
and unsympathetic chill in the silence all about him. He 
thrust his mittened hands deep into his two pockets and bit 
his lip. Johnny was gaining his first knowledge of the 
world's attitude toward the bearer of unwelcome tidings. 
He was alone with his advanced views. During the days 
that followed, Johnny's position was a trying one. Boys 
and girls who used to play Johnny's games, take Johnny's 
orders, and generally await Johnny's pleasure, now spent 
their leisure hours comparing Christmas lists. Tiring of 
this enforced isolation, Johnny joined one of these groups 
the week before Christmas. 

"I got a list, too," he observed ingratiatingly. They 
looked up with brightening faces. Miss Evelyn Johnson 
uttered a shriek of welcome. "Oh, Johnny, then you do 
b 'lieve in Santy, after all ! I 'm just as glad ! ' ' 

"Santy nothin'," observed Johnny Harrington rudely. 
"I 've a list fer me mother. See! She '11 git the things. 
Miss Mayhew wrote it out for me to give her, so she won't 
forget nothin'." 

One pair of skates, 
One flying machine, 



Material for Interpretation 143 

One pair boxing gloves, 
One ball and bat. 



"That 's all I want. Gee, I 'm glad I ain't countin' on 
no Santy Clans to git down the chimley with 'em. ' ' 

Miss Johnson rose. "I ain't goin' to stay here, then," 
she observed nippingly. "If Santy Glaus sees me talking 
to you, he '11 think I don't believe in him, either, and then 
p'raps I won't get nothing from him." 

She departed hurriedly, and her companions faded away 
with her, leaving Johnny alone. Johnny found himself 
practically ostracized during the remaining days before 
Christmas. Touched by his isolation, his teacher, Miss 
Mayhew, spoke of it to the superintendent of the Sunday- 
school that Johnny Harrington adorned on occasions when 
his duties permitted him to be present. 

"He 's having a sad time," she added, when she had told 
the story, "and I 'm afraid he 's going to be dreadfully dis- 
appointed at Christmas. Of course his poor mother can't 
buy those presents for him. She has all she can do to feed 
him." 

The superintendent nodded sympathetically. He remem- 
bered Johnny, and liked him. 

"Perhaps we can help you out. He 's a fine youngster, 
but he 's a bit too cocksure of things. He needs a lesson. 
We '11 have some fun with him. It will do him good. Just 
leave it to me." 

Miss Mayhew thankfully left it to him, and Mr. Henry 
Mason thereupon included in the plans for his Sunday- 
school Christmas celebration one or two features not orig- 
inally on his program. 

Christmas brought a grievous disappointment to Johnny 
Harrington. He had refused to debase his intellect by 



144 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

hanging up a stocking, but he had deigned to facilitate the 
convenience of his mother by putting at the head of his 
bed a large chair on which she might lay the packages con- 
taining his gifts. When he opened his eyes Christmas 
morning, they fell on objects whose bulk and shape were 
such that the shock brought Johnny upright. But, of 
course, he thought, there must be some mistake. 

Mrs. Harrington, who was already up and about, ap- 
peared at the door. "Get right up, Johnny. I want you 
to do some errands for me/' she said briskly. Man though 
he was, Johnny 's eight-year-old voice nearly broke. ' ' Say, 
Ma! Are those things for me?" "Yes, Johnny. Merry 
Christmas ! ' ' 

"Merry Christmas, Ma! Say — is those things all you 
got?" 

"All there is this year, Johnny. Mebbe next year we can 
get the air-ships an' autymobiles an' things. Now you get 
up." 

She departed, and for a sickening moment Johnny Har- 
rington buried his red head in his thin pillow. He remem- 
bered how often he had sworn that he would rather go 
without things than believe in i ' guff. ' ' Well, he was going 
without them ; there was no doubt of that. 

That afternoon Johnny graced the annual Christmas cele- 
bration given for the children of St. Giles' church. His 
modesty, as well as his ragged clothing and bare toes, 
prompted him to take an inconspicuous seat far in the rear 
of the big assembly room. Around him, and stretching row 
after row before him, sat boys and girls he knew — girls 
wearing pink and blue bows, and cuddling new dolls and 
Teddy bears; boys with clean collars, immaculate clothes, 
and hair flattened to their heads' by vigorous brushing. 
Clean, respectable believers in Santa Glaus, Johnny re- 



Material for Interpretation 145 

membered this and regarded the backs of their heads with 
stolid scorn. 

On the stage stood a Christmas tree — a really wonderful 
Christmas tree. Johnny Harrington drew his breath 
sharply as he looked. Presents enough for every one. Pos- 
sibly some for him ! But he dared not hope. Already to- 
day be had experienced one grievous blow. He could not 
face the prospect of another. 

He was aware that Mr. Mason, the Sunday-school super- 
intendent, was saying a few words of welcome, and making a 
few mild jokes suited to fresh young minds. Then there 
was a stir, a great outburst of applause, and an awed silence. 
A huge, fat, red figure, with a red cap and a long white 
beard, flowing down his chest, was bowing to the children 
in response to Mr. Mason's introduction. 

"Santy Claus!" Johnny Harrington's lips curled. He 
shuffled in his seat and looked defiantly ahead. Santa Claus 
was speaking. 

"I ? m glad to be with you to-day, my dear children, be- 
cause Mr. Mason tells me that you Ve been a pretty good lot 
of boys and girls this year. I dropped into some of your 
houses last night, where my boys and girls live — those who 
believe in me, and were expecting me. I couldn't disap- 
point those boys and girls. Of course I did not go to the 
houses where children live who do not believe in me." 

A shudder ran through the assemblage. Were there in- 
deed such? Then every child who knew Johnny Harring- 
ton remembered him, and dozens of eyes turned slowly and 
regarded him with severe disapproval. As if they pointed 
the way, the eyes of Santa Claus turned upon him, too. 
Down the spine of Johnny Harrington there ran a long, icy 
shiver. 

Santa Claus resumed slowly, benign but awesome. "I 



146 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

hear that there is one — boy — present — who does' not believe 
in me ! ' ' 

This was terrible. A great lump rose in the throat of 
Johnny Harrington. He resolutely swallowed it, and 
averted his eyes from the horror-struck face of Evelyn 
Johnson, turned palely upon him. 

"I want to meet that boy. If Johnny Harrington is 
present, I invite him to stand up ! " 

To this distinguished request, Johnny Harrington did 
not respond. It was not the stubborn pride of intellect. 
It was a strange weakness in his knees. His head swam. 
His tongue felt stiff in his mouth. Then, all at once the 
children near him became ostentatiously officious. They 
punched him and pushed him. For a moment Johnny be- 
lieved he was experiencing a dreadful nightmare. Finally, 
partly by his own efforts, partly with the help of others, 
he got on to his feet and stood awaiting his doom. His 
legs shook under him. His freckled face showed the freckles 
more than usual — it was so white. But he held his head 
high, and his eyes looked straight at the roly-poly red figure 
on the platform. 

"So that is Johnny Harrington. The boy who doesn't 
believe in me. Well, well! Now, Johnny, I want you to 
come right down here. ' ' 

This was like being summoned to the block. The other 
children stopped talking and pointing, and awaited further 
developments in awe-struck silence. No journey that 
Johnny Harrington ever made in later life seemed as end- 
less to him as that slow progress from the back to the front 
of the great hall. Never had he experienced before the 
feeling that the world was looking at him. His teeth chat- 
tered in his head. His eyes rolled widely. But he set his 
jaws pugnaciously, and somehow made his way, under the 



Material for Interpretation 147 

eyes of his associates, down to the burly figure that awaited 
him. 

"I think this is positively cruel!" whispered Miss May- 
hew, anxiously. "I didn't know it would be as hard on 
him as that. Poor little fellow !" 

"Do him good," answered the superintendent, senten- 
tiously. "Look at the pluck of the chap! He 's scared 
to death, but he 's taking it gamely. I think I '11 keep an 
eye on that youngster, and do something for him. He 's 
worth it. ' ' 

Johnny Harrington, unaware of this rosy prospect, and 
with no conviction whatever that he was heroic, was shiver- 
ing under the keen eyes of Santa Claus. 

"Now, Johnny," said that gentleman, when the child 
finally stood before him, "I want to say this to you. You 
can think what you please. Nobody cares much what you 
think. But when you go about in school for weeks telling 
other boys and girls that there is no Santa Claus, and trying 
to destroy their faith in me and their happiness in Christ- 
mas, I don't like it. Do you understand?" 

"Ye-ye-yes, sir," said Johnny Harrington, humbly. 

"That 's all right. Remember that in future. Now I 
want you to come up here while I give away all these pres- 
ents. I want you to see me doing my work. Then you 
can make up your mind whether there is a Santa Claus or 
not," 

He motioned Johnny to a chair, and the pale child stum- 
bled forward and sank heavily into it, At first he was so 
dazed by the strangeness of his situation that he saw noth- 
ing but rows of heads and fluttering ribbon. Then, as 
Santa Claus now disregarded him wholly and set actively 
about the business of the day, he was able to realize his 
unique position, and even to grasp some of its advantages. 



148 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

He was a little embarrassed hy the prominence of his feet 
in their torn shoes, but he soon discovered that he could 
effectively and unobtrusively tuck them out of sight behind 
several large packages. This manoeuver effected, he sat up, 
looked about, drew a deep breath, and began to enter into 
the spirit of the occasion. 

Santa was stout, and the room was warm. His make-up, 
moreover, did not facilitate his labors. He reached up for 
packages from the tree and down for packages from the 
floor with increasing difficulty. The quick eyes of Johnny 
Harrington saw this. 

"I kin pick up all the packages," he whispered help- 
fully, "if you '11 just call off the names. You must be 
tired after bein' up all night." 

Santa Claus grinned at him, almost lovingly. "Well, 
rather. And some of those chimneys were an awfully tight 
fit. for a fat man." 

Johnny's heart leaped. This was indeed close associa- 
tion with the great — and surely Santa Claus had forgiven 
him, or he wouldn't talk in that friendly way. Charac- 
teristically, Johnny Harrington fell to work, handing out 
packages, helping to unfasten strings, saving the star per- 
former in every way he could, and doing it all with entire 
good-will and utter lack of self -consciousness. He had for- 
gotten his ragged clothes and his torn shoes. He had 
wholly failed to realize that he himself was getting 
no presents at all. He was merely a busy, happy small 
boy, doing the work that lay before him with all his 
heart and soul. Suddenly Santa Claus uttered an ex- 
clamation. 

"Well, well! Here's a familiar name. ' Johnny Har- 
rington?' " he read at last. "Is Johnny Harrington 
pres — ? Why, yes. Of course he is. I must have brought 



Material for Interpretation 149 

something for him, after all! I suppose I had forgotten 
that he didn't believe in me." 

He turned and handed the package to the small boy, and 
Johnny's heart leaped as he opened it. It had not sur- 
prised him to receive no gifts at all. It did not overcome 
him to receive one now. He was, in his way, a philosopher, 
and took life as he found it. But it was gratifying to dis- 
cover that this package held no candy cane ; no orange ; and 
no colored ball. Instead, it offered him one of his dearest 
dreams — a pair of skates. And^ attached to them, as if to 
make the gift wholly complete, was a pair of stout-soled 
new shoes. Johnny drew a long breath. Skates and shoes ! 
Shoes and skates ! And his small friends were applauding 
wildly as he stared at the gifts. His heart swelled almost 
painfully. 

Miss Mayhew, looking at the boy with a very soft light 
in her eyes, could have told something about the donor of 
these gifts, but Johnny, in his newborn faith, was not likely 
to glance that way. He was looking up at Santa Claus 
now with something in his eyes which touched that matter- 
of-fact gentleman. 

» "I 'm awfully sorry I said you was n't — there was n't — " 
Johnny began haltingly. Santa Claus waved a mittened 
hand. "Oh, that 's all right. Don't mention it. Why, I 
believe there 's something else here with your name on it, 
too." He produced another package, and Johnny opened 
it. A tool-box, full of tools! Johnny gasped. The room 
whirled about him. He turned to the stout figure in red 
to express his thanks, but Santa was already very busy with 
other packages, and Johnny, dropping his own concerns, 
plunged into his work again with renewed alacrity. 

As he lifted and pulled down and untied packages, he 
studied Santa Claus carefully. The back of his head had 



150 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

an oddly familiar look, that puzzled him ; so did a ring on 
his left hand, since Santa Glaus had taken off his mittens. 
His voice, too, had a familiar sound — was even like one he 
had heard many times before. In dreams, or where? 
Santa Claus, tired and anxious to finish his task, was get- 
ting more hurried, more careless. His wig was slipping 
out of place. He became more tantalizingly familiar to 
Johnny. Johnny stared, and pondered. He received other 
gifts — a serviceable suit of clothes, a new cap, an overcoat, 
a muffler. His face shone as he took them, but he had 
assumed a new T expression, over which Miss Mayhew and the 
superintendent felt vaguely puzzled. 

"Well, I guess that \s about all, children," said Santa 
at last. 

"But before we separate" — he paused impressively — 
"there 's one thing more to be done. 

"You will remember/' he said, "that when we met to- 
day we had with us one little boy — just one little boy — who 
did not believe in Santa Claus. 

"I think that the little boy has now changed his mind. 
I think that now he does believe in Santa Claus. I think 
it would be very nice if, before we separate to-day, my 
young friend, Johnny Harrington, stood up and told us 
what he thinks of me now." 

A hush fell upon the schoolroom. Breathlessly, the chil- 
dren w'aited to see what Johnny would do, to hear what the 
erstwhile fiery rebel would say. 

Johnny rose modestly. "Course I would n't say nothin' 
'less you ast me. But I know more 'n ever that the gentle- 
man here isn't really Santy Claus at all. I kin tell you 
jest who he is. I didn't know him myself at first, but 
pretty quick I did. Just as soon as I saw his ring an' the 
big black mole on the back of his neck I knew it was — " 



Material for Interpretation 151 

But the situation was too much for the grown persons 
present. Santa Claus succumbed to what seemed an apo- 
plectic seizure. Mr. Mason hurriedly left the hall through 
a convenient side door, and Johnny Harrington was grasped 
by the seat of his small trousers and plucked from the stage, 
dimly conscious that there was something wrong about his 
speech. With color greatly heightened, Miss Mayhew swept 
him into the retreat behind the wings. There, leaning 
against the wall for support, she feebly endeavored to show 
Johnny the error of his ways. He was singularly obtuse. 

"But it ? s all right. I liked him. I thought he did it 
fine. An' he was awful good to me. An' I was goin' to 
explain all about it when you stopped me." 

He paused a moment, and the words of the superin- 
tendent, who had returned to his post and was now address- 
ing the children, came plainly in to them : 

"YTe have tried to show you all to-day, " he said, "that 
the spirit of Santa Claus was with us, and will always be. 
It is quite true that sometimes, as Johnny Harrington 
says, he is your* father, or your mother, or both. Sometimes 
he is a stout red gentleman, such as we have seen this after- 
noon. But I want every one of you to remember that how- 
ever he looks, whatever form he takes, Santa Claus is with 
us at Christmas time, when love and charity and generosity 
fill our hearts, with the memory of a little Child who came 
into the world to save us." 

Miss Mayhew looked at Johnny. There was a new look 
on his face. "Do you understand? Do you know what he 
means?" she asked gently. 

Johnny nodded. "Yes. Sure. And I ain't never goin' 
to say again that they ain't no Santy Claus. But it ain't 
jest because of what he says. It 's something else I know 
myself." 



152 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

" D ' ye see that tool-box ? Nobody did n ? t know I wanted 
a tool-box. I did n't tell Mother, an' I didn't tell no one. 
But I wanted it just the same more 'n anything else. So 
I" — his face grew red. "So I took a chanct, the way the 
others did. I asked Santa Claus for it! See? An' he 
must 'a' told Mr. Boyee! How could Mr. Boyce know if 
he did n't? That 's what I was goin' to tell the kids, when 
you stopped me. They reely is a Santy Claus! But he 
can't be every place at once, so he makes others look jest 
like him an' help with the job!" 

Johnny's eyes were full of a strange light as he turned 
them on her, and his face was the face of a happy baby 
looking at a shining ball. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 

Elizabeth Jordan. 



OLD JABE'S MARITAL EXPERIMENTS 1 

Old Jabe belonged to the Merriweathers, a fact which 
he never forgot or allowed anyone else to forget; and on 
this he traded as a capital, which paid him many dividends 
of one kind or another, among them a dividend in wives. 
How many wives he had had no one knew; and Jabe's 
own account was incredible. It eclipsed Henry VIII and 
Bluebeard. He had not been a specially good "hand" be- 
fore the war; the overseers used to say that he was a 
"slicktongued loafer," "the laziest nigger on the place." 
"When at the close of the war, the other negroes moved 
away, Jabez slick tongued and oily as ever "took up" a 
few acres on the far edge of the plantation, several miles 

i From "Bred in the Bone"; copyright, 1904, Charles Scribner's 
Sons. • By permission of the publishers. 



Material for Interpretation 153 

from the house, and settled down to spend the rest of his 
days, on what he called his " place" in such ease as con- 
stant application to his old mistress for aid and a frequently 
renewed supply of wives could give. 

Jabe's idea of emancipation was somewhat onesided. He 
was free but his master's condition remained unchanged; 
he still had to support him, when Jabez chose to call on him, 
and Jabez chose to call often, saying "if I don' come to you, 
who is I got to go to?" This was admitted to be a valid 
argument, and Jabez lived, if not on the fat of the land, at i 
least on the fat of his former mistress's kitchen, with such 
aid as his temporary wife could furnish. 

He had had several wives before the war, and was reputed 
to be none too good to them, that he worked them to death. 
Certainly their terms did not last long. However his 
reputation did not interfere with his ability to procure new 
wives, and with Jabez the supply was always equal to the 
demand. He always took his wives from plantations at a 
distance from his home, where the women did not know him 
so well. He was known to say "it don't do to have your 
wife live too near to you, she '11 want to know too much 
about you, an' you can't get away from her," a bit of 
philosophy which must be left to married men. 

Mrs. Merriweather, his old mistress, was just talking of 
him one day, saying that his wife had been ill, but must be 
better, as her son the Dr. had been called but once, — when 
the name of Jabez was brought in by a maid. "Unc' 
Jabez, m'm." That was all, but the tone and manner told 
that Jabez was a person of note with the messenger. 

"That old — he is a nuisance! What does he want now? 
Is his wife worse, or is he after a new one ? ' ' 

"I 'dn! m'm would n' tell me. He ain't after me." 

"Well, tell him to go to the kitchen till I send for him, 



154 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

or — wait; if his wife 's gone he '11 be courting the cook if I 
send him to the kitchen, I don't want to lose her just now. 
Tell him to come to the door." 

There was a slow heavy step without, and a knock at the 
hack door. On a call from his mistress, Jabez entered, bow- 
ing low, very pompous and serious. He was a curious mix- 
ture of assurance and conciliation as lie- stood there, hat in 
hand. He was tall and black and bald, with white side 
whiskers cut very short, and a rim of white wool around 
his head. He was dressed in an old black coat, and held in 
his hand an old beaver hat around which was a piece of 
rusty crape. 

"Well, Jabez," said his mistress, after the salutations 
were over, "how are you getting along?" 

"Well, mist 'is, not very well, not at all well, ma'am. 
Had mighty bad luck, 'bout my wife." 

I saw from Mrs. Merriweather's expression that she did 
not know what he considered "bad luck." She could not 
tell whether his wife were better or worse. 

"Is she — ah — what— oh, how is Amanda?" 

"Lord 'm Mandy was two back. She 's de one runned 
away with Tom Halleck, an' lef ' me. I don't know how she 
is. I never went ahter her. She was too expansive. Uat 
ooman want two -frocks a year. When dese women get to 
dressin' up so, you got to look out dey ain't always 
dressin'fer you! Dis one's najne was Sairey." 

"Oh, yes, true. I 'd forgotten that Mandy left you. 
But I thought the new one was named Susan?" 

"No 'm, not de newes' one. Susan — I had her las' Christ- 
mas, but she would n' stay with me. She was al'ays run- 
ning off to town, an' you know a man don' want a ooman 
on wheels. If de Lord had intended a ooman to have 
wheels, he 'd a g'in 'em to her, would n't he?" 



Material for Interpretation 155 

"Well, I suppose he would. And this one is Sarah?" 

"Yes, 'm, dis one was Sairey." 

We just caught the past tense. 

"You get them so quickly, you see, you can't expect me 
to remember them." 

"Yes, 'm, dat 's so, I kin hardly remember 'em myself." 

"No, I suppose not. Well, how s Sarah?" 

"Well, m'm, I couldn't exactly say — Sairey, she 's done 
lef ' me, — yes 'm." 

"Left you! She has run off too? You must have 
treated her badly." 

"No, 'm, I didn'. I never had a wife I treated better. 
I let her had all she could eat ; an' when she was sick — " 

"I heard she was sick. Did you send for a doctor?" 

"Yes, 'm, dat I did — dat 's what I was gwine to tell you. 
I had a doctor to see her twice. I had two separate and in- 
different physicians, fust, Dr. Overall, an' den Mars 
Douglas." 



"My son told me a week ago that she was sick. Did she 
get well?" 

"No, 'm, but she went mighty easy. Mars Douglas eased 
her off. He is the bes' doctor I ever see to let 'em die 
easy. ' ' 

Mingled with her horror at his cold-blooded recital, a 
smile flickered about Mrs. Merriweather 's mouth at this 
shot at her son, the doctor; but the old man looked abso- 
lutely innocent. 

"Why didn't you send for the doctor again?" 

"Well, m'm, I gin her two chances. I think dat was 
'nough. I declar' I 'd ruther lost Sairey than to broke." 

"You would ! Well, at least you have the expense of her 
funeral ; and I 'm glad of it." 

"Dat 's what I come over to see you 'bout. I 'm gwine 



1&6 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

to give Sairey a fine fun'ral. I want you to let yo' cook 
cook me a cake an ' — one or two more little things. ' ' 

"Very well, I will tell her so. I will tell her to make 
you a good cake. When do you want it?" 

"Thank you, m'm. Yes 'in; ef you 11 gi' me a right 
good-sized cake — an' a loaf or two of flour-bread — an' a 
ham, I '11 be very much obleeged to you. I heah she 's a 
good cook?" 

"She is, the best I 've had in a long time." 

She had not caught the tone of interrogation in his voice, 
nor seen the shrewd look in his face, as I had done. 

" I 'm mighty glad to heah you give her sech a good char- 
acter; I heahed you 'd do it. I don' know her very well." 

Mrs. Merriweather looked up quickly enough to catch his 
glance this time. 

" Jabez— I know nothing about her character, I know she 
has a vile temper ; but she is an excellent cook, and so long 
as she is not impudent to me, that is all I want to know. ' ' 

"Yes 'm, dat 's right. Dat 's all 7 want t' know. I don' 
keer nothin ' 'bout de temper ; atter I git 'em, I kin manage 
'em. I jist want t' know 'bout de char-acter, dat 's all. I 
didn' know her so well, an' I thought I 'd ax you. I tol' 
her ef you 'd,give her a good char-acter, she might suit me; 
but I 'd wait f er de cake — an ' de ham. ' ' 

' l Jabez, do you mean that you have spoken to that woman 
already ? ' ' 

"Well, yes, 'm; not to say speak to her. I jes' kind o' 
mentioned it to her as I 'd inquire as to her char-acter. ' ' 

1 ' And your wife has been dead — how long ? Two days ? ' ' 

"Well, mist 'is, she 's gone fer good, ain't she? She 
can 't be no mo ' gone. ' ' 

"You are a wicked, hardened old sinner!" 

' ' Nor I ain 't, mist 'is ; I 'clar ' I ain 't. " 



Material for Interpretation 157 

"You treat your wives dreadfully.'' 

"Nor I don't, mist 'is. You ax 'em ef I does. Ef I did, 
dee would n' be so many of 'em anxious t' git me. Now 
would dee? I can start in an' beat any one o' dese young 
bloods aroun' heah, now." 

"I believe that is so, and I cannot understand it. And 
before one of them is in her grave you are courting another. 
It is horrid — an old — Methuselah like you." 

' ' Dat 's de reason I got t ' do things in a kind o ' hurry — 
I ain' no Methuselum. 1 got no time t' wait." 

\ ' Jabez, tell me how you manage to fool all these women ? ' ' 

The old man pondered for a moment. 

"Well, I declar ', mist 'is, I hardly knows how. Dee wants 
to be fooled. I think it is becuz dee wants t' see what de 
urrs marry me fer, an' why dee don' lef me. Women is 
mighty curisome folk, mist 'is, dee sho ' is. " 

Thomas Nelson Page. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 

THE MYSTERY OF NIGHT 

Every day two worlds lie at my door and invito me into 
mysteries as far apart as darkness and light. These two 
realms have nothing in common save a certain identity of 
form; colour, relation, distance, are lost or utterly changed. 
In the vast fields of heaven a still mo^e complete and sub- 
lime transformation is wrought. It is new hemisphere 
which hangs above me, with countless fires lighting the 
awful highways of the universe, and guidiug the daring and 
reverent thought as it falters in the highest empyrean. The 
mind that has come into fellowship with nature is subtly 
moved and penetrated by the decline of light and the on- 



158 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

coming of darkness. As the sun is replaced by stars, so is 
the hot, restless, eager spirit of the day replaced by the 
infinite calm and peace of the night. The change does 
not come abruptly or with the suddenness of violent move- 
ment; no dial is delicate enough to register the moment 
when day gives place to night. "With that amplitude of 
power which accompanies every movement, with that sub- 
lime quietude of energy which pervades every action, Na- 
ture calls the day across the hills and summons the night 
that has been waiting at the eastern gates. And now that 
it has gone, with its numberless activities, and the heat and 
stress of their contentions, how gently and irresistibly Na- 
ture summons her children back to herself, and touches the 
brow, hot with the fever of work, with the hand of peace ! 
An infinite silence broods over the fields and upon the rest- 
less bosom of the sea. Insensibly there steals into the 
thought, spent and weary with many problems, a deep and 
sweet repose. Who shall despair while the fields of earth 
are sown with flowers and the fields of heaven blossom with 
stars ? ' 

In the silence of night how real and divine the universe 
becomes! Doubt and unbelief retreat before the awful 
voices that were silenced by the din of the day, but now that 
the little world of man is hushed, seem to have blended 
all sounds into themselves. Beyond the circle of trees, 
through which a broken vision of stars comes and goes with 
the evening wind, the broad earth lies hushed and hidden. 
Noiselessly, invisibly, the great world breathes new life into 
every part of its being, while the darkness curtains it 
from the fierce ardour of the day. 

In the night the fountains are open and flowing; a mar- 
velous freshness touches leaf and flower and grass, and re- 
builds their shattered loveliness. The atars look down from 



Material for Interpretation 159 

their inaccessible heights on a new creation, and as the pro- 
cession of the hours passes noiselessly on, it leaves behind 
a dewy fragrance which shall exhale before the rising sun, 
like a universal incense. When one stands on the shores 
of night and looks off on that mighty sea of darkness in 
which a world lies engulfed, there is no thought but wor- 
ship and no speech but silence. Face to face with im- 
mensity and infinity, one travels in thought among the shin- 
ing islands that rise up out of the fathomless shadows, and 
feels everywhere the stir of a life which knows no weariness 
and makes no sound, which pervades the darkness no less 
than the light. And even as one waits, speechless and awe- 
struck, the morning star touches the edges of the hills, and 
a new day breaks resplendent in the eastern sky. 

Hamilton Wright Mabie. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



" WHERE THERE 'S A WILL" 1 

Never had Mrs. Sachs felt more blissfully content than 
this evening, as she sank into her big chair beside the centre 
table, and took her sewing in her hands. Outside, the 
wind was slapping the rain against the house like water 
thrown from a pail, with all the vehemence of an autumn 
storm, but in the parlor all was light and comfort. The 
four big electric bulbs on the chandelier blazed, and the 
electric table lamp glared. In the hall another electric b 
made a flood of light, and even in the dining-room the elec- 
trics were turned on. There was not a dark corner on the 
entire floor. Mrs. Sachs was well satisfied. 

i Copyrighted J. B. Lippincott Co., Aug., 1011. 



160 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

As the storm, which had begun in the afternoon, increased 
in violence, Mrs. Sachs's feet had pained her more and more, 
and she had looked forward to the torture of shoes with 
dread ; but with the increasing storm Annie had wavered, 
and when night fell and Mr. Sachs came home, wet to the 
skin and saying he had never seen such weather, Annie set 
Mrs. Sachs's mind at rest by saying she would not go to 
any theatre that ever was, on such a night. 

"I 'm glad you got some sense yet, Annie. It ain't no 
use to go out nights like this. I like it better you should 
stay home with us, anyhow, the last night you be here. You 
don't go out to-night, no Henry?" 

' ' Such a night, not much ! I ain 't used to being so cruel 
to myself." 

Annie walked to the window and pressed her face against 
it, looking out. She was small and dainty. 

' ' Such weathers ! Well, I guess we can have a good time 
by ourselves yet, Aunt Tina. I guess Freddy won't come. 
Maybe you let the twins stay up awhile yet?" 

"Sure! But you bet Freddy comes! You bet he thinks 
you go to the theatre, too." 

She was about to say she would send Freddy home again 
if he came, but she decided she owed Annie something for 
not dragging her out in the storm. All summer she had 
watched Annie and had manoeuvred against the very evi- 
dent admiration Freddy had for her niece, for when the girl 
had come, in the early summer, her mother had written 
plainly. 

I hope you keep one eye on Annie (the letter ran), for 
Annie is just about so old when she falls in love quick with 
any feller you don 't know who. I feel like I want to have 
some say in it when she gets engaged, so she don't make 



Material for Interpretation 161 

fools of us, like. Girls is so crazy anyways when a feller 
looks at them twict. So look out she don't get engaged. 

Mrs. Sachs, at first, had been a little piqued by this 
letter, but her big, good-natured self could not remember a 
pique long, and she frankly acknowledged the mother's 
right, and tried faithfully to carry out her wishes. She 
had chaperoned until her feet were a misery to her, and she 
feared Annie might consider her a nuisance. Particularly 
had she battled against Freddy Ruckert, as against an arch 
enemy; for Freddy, red-cheeked and yellow-haired, seemed 
to have fallen head over heeis in love with Annie from 
the first, and Annie frankly preferred Freddy's company. 
The wiles Mrs. Sachs had used would have done credit to a 
general. She contrived ambushes and surprises, all of 
which Freddy, bland and unsuspecting, walked into with 
the calm unconcern of a duck walking into a box. Now 
that the last evening had come and Annie had decided to 
spend it at home, Mrs. Sachs felt her work was done. Only, 
she meant to see there were no dark corners in the house 
that night, where there might be holding of hands or any 
such business. 

When Freddy arrived, laughing at the buffeting the storm 
had given him, the house was lighted as if for a party, and 
as he took off his rough top-coat he said, "Say, I guess you 
got the big electric light bill coming this month!" in a 
tone that included no disappointment. If the sweet process 
he would have called "fixing it up with Annie," was in 
his thoughts at all, he gave no sign, but walked into the 
parlor where the twins were having a grand time on the 
floor, rolling over and over with all the careless abandon 
of one-year-olds. 

Annie was exceedingly fond of the twins. The only 



162 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

thing she regretted about her happy summer had been that 
the twins could not go with her wherever she had gone. 
She loved to sit on the floor "in the midst of the twins' 7 — 
as she said — talking to them, playing with them, and ad- 
miring them. For they were really delightful twins — 
healthy, happy, and handsome. With Freddy in the room, 
and the twins, Annie was ready to pass a delightful eve- 
ning. 

To Mr. Sachs, Freddy was the queer creature that the 
courting young man becomes to the man of the house, a sort 
of bugaboo that one does not know how to handle; to be 
treated sternly, yet kindly, like a pet wolf that must be 
fondled with one hand while the other hand is ready to 
crush. He stood up now to shake hands with Freddy, and 
Mrs. Sachs, with a mind to having a guard in each room, 
said, "Mebby if you should want to read, Heinrich, you 
should go into the dining-room. We ain't making so much 
noise there. ' ' 

But Mr. Sachs, manlike, did not catch the hidden 
meaning. 

"I ain't looked at the twins much to-day yet, Tine. I 
could get a good look at them in this light here." Then, 
turning to Freddy: "If you want, you could smoke in 
my house. I don't do it. I got so fat I got the asthma, 
and to smoke so much ain't no good for it. Annie, give 
Freddy one of them cigars. Maybe they ain't so awful 
dry yet." 

Annie looked in the drawer of the centre table and found 
one cigar with at least a part of the wrapper remaining, 
and handed it to Freddy. He spoke, appreciatively, after 
a glance at the gaily-colored band that encircled it. ' ' Say, 
that was a good cigar once. If I could get a-hold of a 
match, I could have a good smoke." 



Material for Interpretation 163 

"I don't know have we any," said Mrs. Sachs. "When I 
read in the papers some time ago how some kids got burnt 
up by matches, I fired them out. So come, we got the elec- 
trics put in all over the house. I ain't taking no chances 
with the twins. Maybe they don't get afire with matches, 
but anyhow I guess it don 't do them no good to eat matches. 
Maybe you got a match in your pocket, Heinrich?" 

The evening, Mrs. Sachs felt, was beginning auspiciously. 
The conversation was general, and she meant to keep it 
so. 

* * It don 't do folks no good to be always smoking, I guess, ' ' 
she said, hoping to draw Freddy into an argument. Mr. 
Sachs was feeling in one pocket after another, without find- 
ing a match. 

"I make me sure I had a match, either in these clothes 
or somewhere, ' ' he said. He put his fingers in the change 
pocket of his coat and brought out, with three fingers, 
half a dozen small coins and a white stick. "Here is it! 
No, it is a toothpicker! Maybe I got — " 

The twins, sitting on the floor, w r atched him with eager 
eyes. Freddy, across the centre table, held the cigar poised 
in his hand, and Annie, demurely seated in a chair in a far 
corner, looked admiringly at the back of Freddy's head. 
Mrs. Sachs, her large form in a chair as massive as that 
which held Heinrich, smiled placidly at the twins. 

Suddenly two coins slid from between Mr. Sachs's plump 
fingers and rolled across the floor. He put out one big foot 
and planted it firmly on one of the coins, but the other, a 
glittering new cent, rolled in a great semicircle. It 
rounded the chair in which Mrs. Sachs sat, escaping the 
slippered foot she put out at it ; it rounded the base of the 
centre table; it ran past Freddy, and toppled over on the 
carpet directly in front of one of the twins ! Instantly one 



164 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

little fat hand darted out and grasped the cent and lifted 
it toward a rosy mouth, 

"Mein Gott! Roschen! Stop it! Amalie! Nichts!" 
cried Mr. Sachs, rising bulkily from his chair. 

"Nein, Roschen! Nein, nein, Amalie!" and Mrs. Sachs 
got out of her chair with greater haste than seemed pos- 
sible. She might have reached the twin — whichever it was 
— or Mr. Sachs might have reached it, but as they sprang 
forward their heads came together with stunning force. 
It was a delay of but an instant. 

In that instant, however, the lights went out ! 

Not one light, or two, but every light in the house, and 
every light on the street. In the parlor the glare of light 
was instantly followed, by utter blackness, deep, fathomless, 
and impenetrable. Never is darkness so dark as when it 
follows glaring light. 

1 ' Roschen ! Amalie ! ' ' wailed Mrs. Sachs, creeping wildly 
on her hands and knees. " Where you are?" 

"Amalie! Roschen!" shouted Mr. Sachs. His actions, 
had the twins been able to see him, would have filled them 
with joy. They would have thought he was playing "big 
bear coming to catch the baby." But now no answering 
gurgle of pleasure rewarded his heavy crawling across the 
room. The twins, wherever they were, seemed to have been 
made dumb by the darkness. 

"Quick! Annie, Freddy! Already maybe is a twin 
choked by the cent!" wailed Mrs. Sachs. "Ain't you got 
no sense?" 

With one accord, Annie and Freddy dropped to their 
knees. There was a dull blow, as of bone striking wood. 

"Blitzen wetter!" cried Freddy in anguish. His head 
had come in heavy contact with the sharp edge of the heavy 
leg of the centre table, and from Annie came a low moan. 



Material for Interpretation 165 

"Please, Freddy, would you to take your knee off my 
fingers yet?" she begged. "I get them smashed else." 

"Ah, poor liebchen !" exclaimed Freddy, but Mrs. Sachs's 
voice wailed louder, broken by the noise of her skirts as she 
scrambled over the floor, and by the thumps as she bumped 
into the furniture. Never had the room seemed so over- 
furnished. It seemed to have become a veritable forest, in 
which the twins were lost forever. 

"Such ain't no time to be getting off of fingers," she 
cried angrily. "You could be finding twins now. Some- 
body could strike a match ! ' ' 

"Is no matches in the house, ' ' panted Mr. Sachs, feeling 
under the sofa. "A fool is a man that don't have matches! 
Amal— " 

* ' Here ! I got one ! ' ' cried Freddy. 

"Strike it, then, dumb-head!" said Mrs. Sachs angrily. 

"It is a twin I got, not a match. If you mean I should 
hit the kid—" 

' ' Ach, no ! Give me the poor ! Where are you, 
Freddy?" 

"Under the piano maybe." 

1 ' So stay ! ' ' said Mrs. Sachs. ' ' I come. ' ' 

Striking the centre table and two chairs on the way, Mrs. 
Sachs made for the piano corner. 

"Make her down side up, Freddy, and be shaking her 
some ! " 

The wail that followed told that Freddy had inverted the 
twin and was shaking it. 

"Hah!" exclaimed Mr. Sachs, flat on his stomach. "The 
other one I have got ! ' ' 

"You should to upside her quick! Shake her good, 
Heinrich ! ' ' 

The chords of the piano rang as she grasped the twin from 



166 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Freddy and, sitting up suddenly, hit the piano with her 
head. But it was no time to mind a knock or two. 

"Quick, Freddy! Telephone for the doctor yet. Make 
him come soon. Copper cents is so poisonous in babies. 
He should come right off, say, the telephone is by the top 
of the stairs." 

Both the twins were crying lustily now, being held up- 
side down and pounded on the back, but above the wail- 
ing of the storm and the wailing of the twins and the 
wailing of Mrs. Sachs, Freddy's voice soon resounded. 

In the parlor the ministrations to the twins went on with 
all the intensity that agonized parents can put into such 
a thing, Mrs. Sachs giving instructions to Mr. Sachs, and 
Mr. Sachs returning other instructions. It was impossible 
to know which twin had swallowed the copper cent, and 
both suffered alike. 

"Hello! Hello!" shouted Freddy into the telephone. 
He varied it by jogging the receiver-holder up and down 
violently. Central would not answer. He knocked down 
on the battery -box with the receiver. "Hello, why don't 
you ? Look ! I am in a hurry once ! Hello ! ' ' 

' ' Dumb-head ! Not to know how yet to use a tele- 
phone! Take whichever is this twin, Tina. I go!" said 
Mr. Sachs. 

He went. Up the stairs he w r ent like a heavy hurricane, 
and pushed Freddy away with one wide sweep of his arm. 

"Hello, now!" he cried. "Give me Dr. Bardenhauer, 
and make quick!" 

But no answering "Give you information!" came back. 
The receiver offered nothing but blind, blank silence. 

Behind him there was a noise like a load of paving- 
stones falling on a plank walk. Mr. Sachs did not even 



Material for Interpretation 167 

turn his head. It was only Freddy falling downstairs. 
Mr. Sachs was listening with tense senses to the silence in 
the telephone. 

" Hello! What good is such a telephone business yet? 
Central ! Give me — Central ! Hello ! To-morrow I re- 
port you good, I tell you! Hello!" 

His anger increased. He pounded on the battery-box 
until it cracked open like an oyster. The telephone was 
dumb. Mr. Sachs did not know it, but the same falling 
tree that had severed the electric light wires had carried 
down the telephone wires. There is nothing so madden- 
ing as a telephone that will not talk back. 

Mr. Sachs dashed down the stairs, threw open the front 
door and dashed out, hatless and coatless, into the raging 
wind and rain. 

To Mrs. Sachs, with the two screaming babies in her 
arms, it seemed hours before he returned, and when the 
front door opened and Dr. Bardenhauer's burly form ap- 
peared, dimly lighted by the single candle in his carriage 
lamp, which he held in his hand, she cried aloud for 
thankfulness. 

"Here is it I am, Doctor! here — " and at that instant 
all the lights in the house blazed forth. 

The light was dazzling. Even Mrs. Sachs, partially 
screened as she was by the piano under which she was 
sitting, closed her eyes an instant, and the big doctor 
blinked. His carriage lamp became a pale, sickly yellow. 

In a moment he was on his knees before the piano, gaz- 
ing at the twins through his water-dimmed spectacles. 

"Right side them up once," he said shortly. 

The moment they were right side up, the twins stopped 
howling, and the doctor, taking the pink fist of Ainalie — 



168 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Or Koschen — in his big hand, carefully pried the little fin- 
gers apart. The bright copper cent was there in the little 
pink palm! 

But Mrs. Sachs let her eye hold the look of relief but 
an instant, for, sitting on the floor of the hall with their 
backs against the coat-rack, were Freddy and Annie, and 
Freddy was holding Annie's knee-injured hand in his. 

" Annie! What mean you? Shame!" cried Mrs. Sachs. 

But Annie only looked up into Freddy's face blissfully. 

"Don't worry, Mrs. Sachs," said Freddy politely. 
"Things ain't like what they was. Since I tumble down- 
stairs, me and Annie has got engaged already. We got a 
right to hold hands." 

Ellis Parker Butler. 



HE KNEW LINCOLN * 

"Did I know Lincoln? Well, I should say. See that 
chair there ? Take it, set down. That 's right. Comfort- 
able, ain't it? Well, sir, Abraham Lincoln has set in that 
chair hours, him and Little 'Doug,' and Logan and Judge 
Davis, all of 'em, all the big men in this State, set in that 
chair. See them marks? Whittlin'. Judge Logan did it, 
all-firedest man to whittle. Always cuttin' away at some- 
thing. I just got that chair new, paid six dollars for it, 
and I be blamed if I did n 't come in this store and find him 
slashin' right into that arm. I picked up a stick and 
said: 'Here, Judge, s'posin' you cut this. He just looked 
at me and then flounced out, mad as a wet hen. Mr. Lin- 
coln was here, and you ought to heard him tee-hee. He 

i Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "He Knew 
Lincoln" by Ida M. Tarbell. Copyright by the Macmillan Co. 



Material for Interpretation 169 

was always here. Come and set by the stove by the hour 
and tell stories and talk and argue. There wan't never no 
United States Senate that could beat just what I 've heard 
right here in this room with Lincoln settin' in that very 
chair where you are this minute. 

"Tell stories? Nobody ever could beat him at that, and 
how he 'd enjoy 'em, just slap his hands on his knees and 
jump up and turn around and then set down, laughin' to 
kill. Greatest man to git new yarns that ever lived, always 
askin', ' Heard any new stories, Billy?' And if I had I 'd 
trot 'em out, and how he 'd laugh. Often and often when 
I Ve told him something new and he 'd kin 'a forgit how it 
went, he 'd come in and say, ' Billy, how was that story 
you'se tell in' me?' and then I 'd tell it all over. 

"You know I felt kind of sorry for Lincoln when they 
began to talk about him for President. It seemed almost 
as if somebody was makin' fun of him. He didn't look 
like a president. I never had seen one, but we had pic- 
tures of 'em, all of 'em from George Washington down, 
and they looked somehow as if they were different kind of 
timber from us. I couldn't imagine George Washington 
or Thomas Jefferson settin' here in that chair you 're in 
tee-heein' over some blamed yarn of mine. None of us 
around town took much stock in his bein' elected at first — 
that is, none of the men, the women was different. They 
always believed in him, and used to say, 'You mark my 
word, Mr. Lincoln will be president. He 's just made for 
it, he 's good, he 's the best man ever lived and he ought 
to be president.' I didn't see no logic in that then, but 
I dunno but there was some after all. 

" 'Was there much talk about his bein' killed?' Well, 
there 's an awful lot of fools in this world and when they 
don't git what they want they 're always for killin' some- 



170 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

body. Mr. Lincoln never let on, but I reckon his mail was 
pretty lively readin' sometimes. 

"Of course he seemed pretty cheerful always. He wan't 
no man to show out all he felt. Lots of them little stuck-up 
chaps that came out here to talk to him said, solemn as 
owls, 'He don't realize the gravity of the situation.' 
Think of that, Mr. Lincoln not realizing. They ought to 
heard him talk to us the night he went away. I '11 never 
fergit that speech — nor any man who heard it. I can see 
him now just how he looked, standin' there on the end of 
his car. He 'd been shakin' hands with the crowd in the 
depot, laughing and talking, just like himself, but when 
he got onto that car he seemed suddint to be all changed. 
You never seen a face so sad in all the world. I tell you 
he had woe in his heart that minute, woe. He knew he was 
leavin' us for good, nuthin' else could explain the way he 
looked and what he said. He knew he never was comin' 
back to us alive. 

" 'Ever see him again?' Yes, once down in Washington, 
summer of '64. Things were looking purty blue that sum- 
mer. Did n't seem to be anybody who thought he 'd git re- 
elected. I kept hearin' about the trouble he was havin' 
with everybody, and I jest made up my mind I 'd go down 
and see him and swap yarns and tell him how we was all 
countin' on his gettin' home. So I jest picked up and went 
right off. 

"Well, when I got down there to Washington, I footed 
it right out to the Soldiers' Home where Mr. Lincoln was 
livin' then, right among the sick soldiers in their tents. 
There was lots of people settin ' around a little room, 
waitin fer him, but there wan't anybody there I knowed, 
and I was feelin' a little funny when a door popped open 
and out came Mr. Lincoln. He saw me almost at once, and 



Material for Interpretation 171 

his face lit up, and he laid holt of me and jest shook my 
hands fit to kill. 'Billy,' he says, 'I am glad to see you. 
Come right in. You 're goin' to stay to supper with Mary 
and me. ' 

"Did n't I know it ? Think bein' president would change 
him — not a mite. Well, he had a right smart lot of people 
to see, but soon as he was through we went out on the back 
stoop and sat down and talked and talked. He asked me 
about pretty nigh everybody in Springfield. I just let 
loose and told him about the weddin's and births and the 
funerals and the buildin', and I guess there wan't a yarn 
I heard in the three years and a half he 'd been away that 
I didn't spin for him. Laugh — you ought to a heard him 
laugh — just did my heart good, for I could see what they 'd 
been doin' to him. Always was a thin man, but Lordy, he 
was thinner 'n ever now, and his face was kind a drawn 
and gmy — enough to make you cry. 

"Well, we had supper and then talked some more, and 
about ten o'clock I started down tow r n. Wanted me to stay 
all night, but I says to myself, 'Billy, don't you overdo it. 
You 've cheered him up, and you better light out and let 
him remember it when he 's tired.' So I said, 'Nope, Mr. 
Lincoln, can't, goin' back to Springfield to-morrow.' 

"Well, sir, I never was so astonished in my life. Mr. 
Lincoln just took my hand and shook it nearly off, and he 
says, 'Billy, you '11 never know w T hat good you done me. 
I 'm homesick, Billy, just plumb homesick, and it seems 
as if this war never would be over. Many a night I can 
see the boys a-dyin' on the fields and can hear their moth- 
ers cryin' for 'em at home, and I can't help 'em, Billy. I 
have to send them down there. We 've got to save the 
Union, Billy, we 've got to.' 

" 'Course we have, Mr. Lincoln,' I says, cheerful as I 



172 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

could, 'course we have. Don't you worry. It 's most over. 
You 're goin' to be re-elected, and you and old Grant 's 
going to finish this war mighty quick then. Just keep a 
stiff upper lip, Mr. Lincoln, and don't forget them yarns 
I told you.' And I started out. But seems as if he 
couldn't let me go. 'Wait a minute, Billy,' he says, 'till 
I get my hat and I '11 walk a piece with you.' It was one 
of them still sweet-smellin' summer nights with no end 
of stars and you ain't no idee how pretty 'twas walkin' 
down the road. There was white tents showin' through 
the trees and every little way a tall soldier standin' stock 
still, a gun at his side. Made me feel mighty curious and 
solemn. By-and-by we come out of the trees to a sightly 
place where you could look all over Washington — see the 
Potomac and clean into Virginia. There was a bench 
there and we set down and after a while Mr. Lincoln he 
begun to talk. Well, sir, you or nobody ever heard any- 
thing like it. Tell you what he said? Nope, I can't. 
Can't talk about it somehow. He just opened up his heart 
if I do say it. Seemed as if he 'd come to a p 'int where he 
must let out. I dunno how long we set there — must have 
been nigh morning, fer the stars begun to go out before he 
got up to go. 'Good-by, Billy,' he says. 'You 're the first 
person I ever unloaded onto, and I hope you won't think 
I 'm a baby, ' and then we shook hands again, and I walked 
down to town and next day I come home. 

"Yes, that 's the last time I seen him — last time alive. 

"Wan 't long after that things began to look better. War 
began to move right smart, and, soon as it did, there wan't 
no use talkin' about anybody else for President. I see 
that plain enough, and just as I told him, he was re-elected, 
and him and Grant finished up the war in a hurry. I tell 
you it was a great day out here when we heard Lee had 



Material for Interpretation 173 

surrendered. But somehow the only thing I could think 
of was how glad Mr. Lincoln would be. 

"We began right off to make plans about the reception 
we 'd give him — brass band — parade — speeches — fireworks 
— everything. Seems as if I couldn't think about any- 
thing else. I was comin' down to open the store one 
mornin' thinkin' how I 'd decorate the windows and how 
I 'd tie a flag on that old chair, when I see Hiram Jones 
comin' towards me. He looked so old and all bent over I 
did n't know what had happened. 'Hiram,' I says, 'what 's 
the matter? ' Be you sick?' 

" 'Billy,' he says, and he couldn't hardly say it, 'Billy, 
they Ve killed Mr. Lincoln.' 

"Well, I just turned cold all over, and then I flared up. 
'Hiram Jones,' I sa~ T s, 'you 're lyin', you 're crazy. How 
dare you tell me that? It ain't so.' 

" 'Don't, Billy,' he says, 'don't go on so. I ain't lyin'. 
It 's so. He '11 never come back, Billy. He 's dead !' And 
he fell to sobbin' out loud right there in the street, and 
somehow I knew it was true. 

"For days and days 'twas awful here. Waitin' and 
waitin'. Seemed as if that funeral never would end. I 
couldn't bear to think of him bein' dragged around the 
country and havin' all that fuss made over him. He al- 
ways hated fussin' so. Still, I s'pose I 'd been mad if 
they hadn't done it. 

"Of course they got here at last, and I must say it was 
pretty grand. All sorts of big bugs. Senators and Con- 
gressmen, and officers in grand uniforms and music and 
flags and crape. They certainly didn't spare no pains 
givin' him a funeral. Only we didn't want 'em. We 
wanted to bury him ourselves, but they would n't let us. 

"Ma and me didn't go to the cemetery with 'em. I 



174 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

couldn't stan' it. Didn't seem right to have sich goin's 
on here at home where he belonged for a man like him. 
But we go up often now, ma and me does, and talk about 
him. 

"Yes, I knowed Abraham Lincoln; knowed him well; 
and I tell you there wan't never a better man made. 
Leastwise, I don't want to know a better one. He just 
suited me — Abraham Lincoln did." 

Ida M. Tarbell. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



A LITTLE CHANGE FOR EDWARD 

Good-evening, Mrs. Callender — good-evening, Mr. Cal- 
lender. You see I have my husband with me ! Edward has 
said, all through his illness, that the very first time he went 
out it would be over here to your house, so you see it 's 
quite an event. The doctor said this morning when he 
found Edward so depressed that if the weather continued 
to be mild it would be the very best thing in the world for 
him to have a little change of scene and thought — to be 
taken out of himself; that 's what he really needs now. 
He wanted to come over here alone, but I said to him: 
No, Edward, I don't dare let you go without me; I 'm so 
afraid you might do something imprudent. Of course he 
doesn't realize it, but he has to be watched every minute, 
especially now that he begins to seem all right. You have 
to be so careful about ptomaine poisoning. Mrs. Callender, 
would you mind moving your chair a little, so that Edward 
can move his out of the draught? — No, Edward, you don't 
feel it now, but you will feel it. Thank you, Mrs. Cal- 
lender, perhaps I shall be more at ease about him if the 



Material for Interpretation 175 

window 's shut. It 's all very well for you to say you like 
the air, Edward; you don't realize now how dangerous air 
is, but if you wake up in the middle of the night with a 
pain in the back of your neck and I have to go down and 
get hot-water bottles for you, you '11 wish that you had 
been more careful. What do you think, Mr. Callender, I 
have heated one hundred and seventeen water bottles for 
him in the last three weeks! 

Edward dear, put your feet up on this ottoman — I know 
Mrs. Callender will excuse you. — I '11 throw my cape over 
them, in case they might get chilled. Edward, "How can 
you act like that; so perfectly silly." — Very well, then, 
never mind about the cape. Aren't men just like chil- 
dren? I 'm sure you wouldn't behave like this, Mr. Cal- 
lender, if your wife took you out after such a severe illness 
as he has had ! — Well, it 's very kind of you to speak that 
way. I 'm sure I have tried to do all that I could — nobody 
knows what I 've been through ; I 've had to keep every- 
thing to myself. He was so terribly ill that first week — 
he does n't realize how ill he was. If it was n't the dread- 
ful pain in his head it was the pain all over him. I put 
sixteen plasters on him a day, and when you consider what 
that means, Mrs. Callender, running up and down two 
pairs of stairs to the kitchen and back again to make each 
plaster, besides everything else that came on me — Oh, yes, 
I know that I ought to have had a trained nurse, but at the 
time I was so anxious about Edward — when it 's your hus- 
band you feel as if you must do everything yourself for 
him. Yes, that 's what uses you up so, standing on your 
feet. I said to Edward to-day: Edward, if you realized all 
I go through, standing on my feet — 

Yes, dear, I know you wanted me to send for your 
mother to help me, but — He doesn't understand, as you 



176 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

would, Mrs. Callender, how much work it makes to have 
another person — and especially an older person, like your 
husband's mother — in the house during sickness. Mrs. 
Delancy is perfectly dear and considerate, but you can't 
treat her like anybody else — you wouldn't want to, of 
course, and besides, she 's one of those people who can 
only eat very simple things, and you know how much trou- 
ble that makes with the girl in the kitchen — it means 
something extra cooked for each meal, and we are always 
getting out of the right cereal, no matter how I try not 
to ! I always feel so ashamed about it. I really felt, just 
now, that with Edward as he is, I really couldn't stand 
anything inofe on my mind. 

He looks a great deal better, I know, but his color isn't 
quite right even yet — you can notice it around his nose and 
under his eyes. You ought to have seen him at first — 
he was actually green. Yes, you were, Edward; the doc- 
tor said — Why, Edward! — Very well, dear, it 's all right, 
we won't say any more about it. Just let me feel your 
hands a moment. You don't think you 're getting too 
tired? No, dear, I know you don't like me to ask you 
how you feel, but it 's necessary sometimes. Don't you 
think you 'd better have a glass of milk, dear? I know, 
Mrs. Callender, that you 'd just as lief get it for him. — 
Never mind, Mrs. Callender, when he speaks like that I 
just let him alone. Why don't you talk to Mr. Callender, 
dear? Is that a cigar? Now you don't want to smoke? 
Oh, Edward, I wish you wouldn't! Why can't you just 
enjoy seeing Mr. Callender do it? — Well, if you must! 

You 've no idea how irritable he gets, Mrs. Callender — he 
does n 't hear, he 's talking to your husband. It 's his 
nerves, of course; ptomaine poisoning upsets you all over 
— it seems to come out in a new place every day. Yester- 



Material for Interpretation 177 

day I bought him some shirts at a sale in town — they 
were really beautiful quality — the only thing the matter 
with them was that they were a little tight in the neck, 
and he really became almost — uncontrolled — at the idea of 
wearing them. Even when I pointed out to him that as I 
bought them at a sale they couldn't be exchanged, it made 
no difference to him. Men have no idea of economy. 

What is that that you are telling Mr. Callender, Edward? 
It wasn't the latter part of May that Mr. Fales had the 
accident; it was the first of June. I remember about it 
particularly for I was washing my hair when it happened 
and I always washed it the first of the month because that 
woman I went to said it stimulated the growth if you had a 
regular time for it, although mine comes out in perfect 
handfuls. Well, dear, you always want me to be accurate. 
I assure you, Mr. Callender, I '11 never forget that morn- 
ing. I heard Mrs. Fales scream, and then I saw Edward 
rushing down the road with his hat off, and the first thing 
Mr. Fales said to him when he was regaining conscious- 
ness was, " Drive that fly away — drive that fly away!" and 
all Edward could say — he was so distracted — was, "Which 
one, which one?" And Mr. Fales gasped, "The one with 
the blue eyes !" Now I can't see anything amusing in that, 
can you? — Well, Edward, why didn't you tell it yourself 
then; I 'm sure nobody was preventing you. Well, dear, 
don't talk if you don't want to. — Was that your new maid 
who went through the hall just now, Mrs. Callender? She 
looks as if she had a cheerful disposition. Oh, yes, the one 
I have is neat, but she doesn't seem to get anything done. 
She cries all the time, the way they always do when they 
have a lover. We have done nothing but change all sum- 
mer. Edward says he is sick and tired of hearing about 
servants, but I tell him if the burden of it all fell on him. 



178 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

as it does on me, he ? d find out the difference. The things 
they do pass belief; I had a cook the first Christmas after 
we were married, twelve years ago, and she — Yes, Edward 
dear, I know you Ve heard the story often before, but Mr. 
and Mrs. Callender have not, and I am telling it to them. 
"Well, dear, perhaps we had better go home. — You see, Mr. 
Callender, he ? s not had as much dissipation as this for a 
long time. Yv 7 hen I think of all those nights when I sat 
watching beside him, with the light turned down in the 
room so that I could only just see his face, and with all 
those queer, creepy noises around that you seem to hear 
in the house after midnight when everything else is still, it 
made it seem as if nothing was ever going to be the same 
any more — as if the children and I — Oh, when I think of 
that and look at him now, it makes me so happy! — Why, 
Edward dear, you mustn't help me down the steps; I 
ought to be doing it for you ! 

Mary Stewart Cutting. 



THE PRETENSIONS OF CHARLOTTE 

' ' Charlotte Crandall, come here this very instant ! Let 
me speak to you again and you '11 know it." 

The speaker was a tall, thin, sour-appearing woman of 
middle age. Her hair, black without a single trace of 
gray, was parted in the center and drawn back into a small 
knot on top of her head, a knot so tightly wound that the 
woman's eyes seemed to be drawn into narrow slits in con- 
sequence. Her hands were long and bony, and attracted 
one by their restless activity; her general appearance was 
unkempt; a person who had known a long life of hard 
work was proven in every line of her face and figure, 



Material for Interpretation 179 

every motion she made; she was always at work, and she 
expected everyone about her to follow her example. 

Her field of action just now was the kitchen, and she was 
engaged in the first preparations for dinner. 

"Charlotte Crandall!" 

To this second summons there was a faint answer of 
"Yes 'm" from the porch which opened off the kitchen, and, 
immediately following the response, a sad-faced child of 
eleven or twelve entered the room. She was not pretty, 
nor even good-looking, and her clothes were worn and un- 
tidy; there was nothing about her to attract one, except 
a pained expression that would have touched even a hard- 
ened heart. Her whole bearing suggested that she was 
overwhelmed with some great sorrow. 

' k You was callin' me?" 

"Callin'! callin '! Well, I jest guess I was callin' ! 
For heaven's sake, Charlotte, whatever makes you look so 
meek and lowly?" 

"I ain't really meek and lowly. I 'm pretendin'." 

"Pretendin'! You jest quit your pretendin' and shell 
them peas. But what you could ever pretend that 'ud make 
you meek and lowly is beyond me ! " 

Well, you see, Mis' Epps, it ain't hard to pretend, if you 
jest know how. I began by thinkin' it was ever so long ago. 
My husband and six sons had all gone away with the Cru- 
saders, and every one of 'em was killed. I was jest over- 
come with grief when I got the news, which was brought 
back by the only man in the whole lot that wasn't killed. 
I simply sat down and wept and wept. And, as if that 
wasn't enough bad luck for one poor woman to bear, 
along come a band of marauding knights and besieged the 
castle, and my servants and slaves, and vassals, and pages, 
and every one, was all killed in trying to protect me from 



180 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

harm. And when they was all dead, I jest went up to the 
very highest-up room in the very tallest tower, and sat 
down with Christian resignation to meet my fate. I could 
hear the heavy tramp of feet upon the stairs. It was jest 
awful, but I didn't shriek or make no noise; and jest as 
those fierce men was breakin' in the door to my room, you 
called, Mis' Bpps. You always do call jest when things is 
gettin' inter 'stin'. I was jest bravely wonderin' what 
they 'd do to me when you yelled and spoiled it all." 

' l Here, that '11 do ! You 've done enough pretendin ' for 
one day — you jest naturally get in and work. What you 
think I sleep and feed you for, anyway ? ' ' 

Charlotte again mechanically took up her task. For 
some moments there was silence in the room. 

"Was you really wonderin' why you sleep and feed me, 
Mis' Epps? Well, you know I wouldn't amount to much 
if I didn't get some food and sleep. I couldn't work so 
very long without them." 

"Work! It 's precious little work you ever do!" 

"Yes 'm, but you see, Mis' Epps, it 's mighty little sleep 
I get, too, and I could eat more food 'n I get ! I wish I was 
a hog! Hogs ain't particular what they get, but they get 
all they want, and all they have to do is jest grow fat. No 
one ever tried to make me fat. They all try to see how 
very much I can work on a very little. You 're tryin' to 
see how much you kin git out of me, and I 'm tryin' to see 
how little. I 've made up my mind to work jest accordin' 
to the way you treat me. No, Mis' Epps, it won't do you 
any good to strike me, I 'm not afraid. If you hit me, I 11 
pretend I 'm dead, and then you '11 git no work out of me 
at all. I '11 pretend you 're the maraudin' band that took 
me and killed me, and the more you beat me, the more I '11 
look happy — I won't be here, you know; I '11 be in Para- 



Material for Interpretation 181 

dise with my husband and six sons that was killed in the 
Crusades, and my joy will be so beautiful that it will shine 
forth on my earthly visage ! ' ' 

The woman's hand descended to her side without inflict- 
ing any harm. 

"That 's right. It 's a good thing to listen to reason 
sometimes and you know well enough that you or Mr. Epps 
never gained nothin' by beating me — and you won't ever, 
either! I 'm glad I 'm incorrigible and rebellious, and 
I 'm glad I ain't afraid of anyone — not even the minister, 
and I 11 answer him up jest as I did last time if he warns 
me any more about the everlasting torments of the here- 
after. He meant hell, but he dare n't say it, for fear folks 
'ud think he was swearin'! I 'd answer him jest as I did 
then, and I 'd say I didn't expect to mind the change 
much, and I '11 bet you I 'd be shellin' peas down there for 
you jest the same as here ! ' ' 

"You say another word, Charlotte Crandall, and I '11 
strike you, good or no good. I won't have such awful talk 
in my house ! ' ' 

"Well, I suppose it 's the potaters next. I like mine best 
with their jackets on — every one would if they had to do 
their own peelin'." 

She was silent for a while; then she broke out so sud- 
denly that Mrs. Epps jumped. 

"I wish they 'd have taken Donaldson and hung him! 
Any one with sense could see he done it even if they 
couldn't prove it." 

"What } r ou got against Donaldson?" 

"I 've got it against him because he done it." 

"Now, Charlotte, you mustn't say you know he done 
it, because you don't know nothin' of the kind — maybe he 
did and maybe he did n't," 



182 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"He done it. He used to beat his wife, and he was cruel 
to his baby, and they had to run away and leave him. 
I 'd like to see my husband try to beat me ! He 'd not do 
it more 'an once. I 'd fight back and I 'd make him afraid 
of me. If I was Donaldson's wife, I 'd — that 's silly to 
think about, for I would n 't ever have been fool enough 
to marry Donaldson — I know men too well. But, jest the 
samey, if I was a woman grown and owned my own farm, 
my very own farm, I 'd not let my husband come along 
and bend my will. No, siree. If I wanted the truck gar- 
den in the north field near the house, it wouldn't be put 
down at the far end of the south field, not for no reason. 
I 'd— " 

Mrs. Epps knew that this was meant as a personal at- 
tack, and whether it was made in the spirit of contempt 
or simply as an encouragement to open rebellion w r as all 
one and the same to her — it was, in either case, such fla- 
grant presumption as to be serving of a severe reprimand 
and at this point in the discourse she prepared to make a 
sudden descent on the culprit. She was anticipated in her 
designs, however ; for a large, muscular man of rough ap- 
pearance, somewhat Mrs. Epps' junior, stepped quickly into 
the room and took Charlotte roughly by the shoulder. 

i l See here, you. What you mean by letting her talk like 
that? I 'm master here — do you understand? Master!" 

Charlotte turned fearlessly on the man. "Epps, you 're 
a bully. I won't take it back, and I '11 think it, even if 
you do hit me." At this he gave her a stinging slap on 
the cheek, which she received with wonderful self-con- 
trol. 

"Jest talk that way some more," he said tauntingly, but 
his victim was silent, and refused even to look at him— 
she was pretending to herself that he was not there* He 



Material for Interpretation 183 

left her alone after a moment or so, and went back to his 
work, showering the woman and girl with profanity and 
threats as he departed. 

Charlotte talked no more that clay. She worked on 
steadily at whatever task was before her, but by the look 
in her eyes it was clear that her mind was far away. That 
night she stole off to bed as early as she could, and the next 
morning she was gone. 

Work was neglected while they searched about the place, 
but Charlotte was nowhere to be found. 

Three days later, Mrs. Epps, busily engaged in her 
kitchen as usual, was startled, on turning round, to find 
Charlotte standing in the doorway leading from the porch. 
i ' Lord save us ! " 

"How-dy-do. Did I scare you? You see, I jest came 
back — I didn't have any place else to go. I guess you '11 
let me stay; I'm handy to have about, you know." 

' ' What made you run away? Was it because Epps 
slapped you?" 

"I 'm not quite sure. I think maybe that was what 
started me. You see, I began to pretend I was a beautiful 
slave girl, and my father had been whipped to death, while 
I stood by without being able to protect him one mite, and 
my mother had been sold to an awful cruel master 'way 
down South. Then I jest got so interested, I forgot all 
about you folks, and I really was jest that poor nigger girl, 
and there wasn't nothing else for me to do but to run 
away from my master and missus, who were very cruel and 
heartless. It was the easiest pretendin' I ever did in my 
life." 

' ' Don't you think you need a good lickin'?" 

"You can lick me, if you want to. Tt 'd be a fine ending 
for the beautiful slave girl. I 'd pretend she was caught, 



184 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

and of course then she would be brought back and licked. 
I ain't afraid. See what I 've got!" She drew from the 
folds of her dress a rusty revolver. 

She seemed pleased with her climax, for she laughed as 
Mrs. Epps drew back with a stifled exclamation. 

" There 's nothin' to be afraid of. It 's no good for 
shootin' now, but it 's Donaldson's gun. It 's the one he 
used, you know. I found it under a big rock by the creek 
where I was hidin'. He '11 git his, now. It 's evidence — 
it 's the evidence they couldn't find." 

Mrs. Epps swayed a little — there was a frightened catch 
in her voice as she spoke : 

"Give me the gun. You 're all pegged out; run along 
and git into bed. Epps 11 be pretty mad when he finds 
you 're back, but I won't let him touch you. I '11 show 
him, for once, that he ain't master all the time." 

"Don't you let no one git the gun. I am kind of tired 
and I guess a bed '11 feel pretty good. ' ' She moved wear- 
ily across the room and into the dark passage that opened 
on the back stairs. 

When she was gone, Mrs. Epps laid the revolver on the 
shelf and went on with her work. "Ain't it strange, 
though? And, Oh, Lord! Ain't it awful!" 

A few moments later Epps came in, and his wife turned 
on him sternly. "Epps, Charlotte Crandall 's back." 

The man swore horribly and asked where the child was 
now. Mrs. Epps made no reply until her husband had 
quite exhausted his abundant supply of appropriate pro- 
fanity ; then she said slowly : i ' Epps, you 've called your- 
self master here for a good many years. Well, here ? s one 
time when you ain't the master. You ain't goin' to touch 
that child. This ranch is mine — there 's six hundred acres, 
and they 're all mine ; and the money in the bank 's mine ; 



Material for Interpretation 185 

and this house is mine; and all the stock 's mine, and the 
crops. I 've held out against you that far, and here 's 
once more when I 'm goin' to have my way — I ain't quite 
broken. You're not to strike that child. You needn't 
say a thing*. She 's all tired out and she 's gone up to 
bed. It was a game she was playin', and while she was 
hidin' she found Donaldson's gun, and she 's jest hopin' 
the evidence '11 hang him. Oh, Epps, ain't it awful — 
and to think Donaldson 's her father!" The woman pro- 
duced the weapon from the shelf. "It 's his. There 's no 
question. See the 'D' scratched in. I 've seen him carry 
it." 

"It won't do no good to hang Donaldson now. He got 
killed in a drunken row last night. Give it to me — I don't 
believe it 's Donaldson's gun anyhow. Even if it is, it 
can't do him no harm now." 

"But it can save Johnston." 

"They let Johnston go — they couldn't hold him on 
the proof they had. Give me the gun. It 's no good to 
any one now. ' ' 

"What makes you act so queer? What are you a-trem- 
blin' for? What 's the matter with you, anyway? The 
gun ? s no good to you, either." 

The man came a step forward. " *D' can stand for 
something besides Donaldson. It could stand for a Chris- 
tian name; it could stand for — David, or maybe Daniel — " 

His wife drew back. "Oh, I see. You — you done it — 
you ! I knew you hated him — but I never thought — nobody 
ever thought that — you would do a thing like that. Don't 
you come near me ! Jest you take a step, and I '11 scream 
— the men are near enough to hear me. You jest come 
near to me, and I '11 tell 'em what you said!" 

He reached out his hand again. "Give me that £un. 



186 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

I 11 hide it this time so as nobody '11 ever find it again ; 
then nobody II ever know." 

"Only Charlotte. The best thing you can do, Epps, is 
to go away somewhere — somewhere good and far away; I 
don't care where. I can save you till you get a safe 
start; I can't promise to do more if it ever gets out. Per- 
haps I 'm wrong in doin' this much for you; but you 're 
my husband, even if you weren't ever very kind to me. I 
never had no romance in my life; I 've always had jest 
w r ork and trouble — and now this awful thing — this awful 
thing that 's got to be lived down." 

"You 're afraid of the kid. I 11 silence her for keeps." 

"I 'm not afraid of the kid, and you 11 not touch her. 
She 's the nearest thing to a romance that ever come into 
my life. You ain't ever goin' to hurt Charlotte again. 
I 've a strange feelin' here — it 's a dull sort of pain. I 
never had it before. I want you to go away — I w 7 ant you 
to clear out — I don't want to never see you again. I 11 
keep Charlotte — I won't ever give her up. And as for 
you, if you ever dare to come back, I 11 tell all I know, and 
— I 11 keep the gun to prove it. I want you to go — don't 
think for a moment that I 'm foolin'." 

The woman faced the man almost fiercely. Their eyes 
met, and his fell under her steady gaze. His outstretched 
hand fell to his side ; he murmured something, and, mum- 
bling to himself, left the room. The woman watched him 
pass down the path outside, thru the gate, and away — 
whither she neither knew nor cared. The lines of her face 
seemed to deepen as she looked out on the man who for a 
dozen years or more had been her husband, looked out 
upon him and saw him passing from her life ; but her lip 
did not tremble, nor was there a trace of a tear in her 
eyes. 



Material for Interpretation 187 

But, though she appeared so unmoved, she was uncon- 
scious of all that went on about her. She did not see a 
slender child come cautiously from the dark passageway. 
She thought, if she thought of the matter at all, that she 
was alone. The piteous voice of the child called her back 
to herself: "Mis' Epps!" Charlotte was at her side, her 
arms were around the woman's neck. "Oh, Mis' Epps, I 'm 
so sorry! I wouldn't have fetched it if I 'd V known. 
But I '11 try to make it up the best I kin. If you '11 jest 
pretend you 're my mother, I '11 pretend I 'm your little 
girl jest as hard as I know how." 

"There, there, Charlotte, never mind. Don't cry. I '11 
pretend, if you '11 jest show me how. I never had no little 
girl, and you never really had no mother. ' ' 

Charlotte hid her face for a moment ; then she looked up. 

"Pretendin' is awful easy when you jest know how, and 
I '11 show you how." And they laughed softly together. 

Walter Beach Hay. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



AN UNFINISHED STORY 

Mrs. Trevelyan, as she took her seat, shot a swift glance 
down the length of her table at the arrangement of her 
guests ; the wife of the Austrian minister who was her very 
dearest friend, saw and appreciated, and gave her a quick 
little nod over her fan, which said that the table was per- 
fect, the people most interesting, and that she could pos- 
sess her soul in peace. They all knew each other very well ; 
and if there was a guest of the evening, it was one of the two 
Americans — either Miss Egerton, the girl who was to marry 
Lord Arbuthnot, or young Gordon, the explorer. Miss 



188 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Egerton was a most strikingly beautiful girl, and was said 
to be intensely interested in her lover's career, and was 
as ambitious for his success in the House, as he was him- 
self. They were both very much in love. The others at 
the table were General Sir Henry Kent ; Philips, the novel- 
ist, the Austrian minister and his young wife, and 
Trevelyan. 

The dinner was well on its way toward its end, when Sir 
Henry Kent, who had been talking across to Philips, the 
novelist, leaned back in his place and said, as though to 
challenge the attention of every one, "I can't agree with 
you, Philips. I am sure no one else will." 

"Dear me," complained Mrs. Trevelyan, plaintively, 
"what have you been saying now, Mr. Philips? He always 
has such debatable theories," she explained. 

"On the contrary, Mrs. Trevelyan/' said Philips, "it is 
the other way. It is Sir Henry who is making all the trou- 
ble. He is attacking one of the oldest and dearest plati- 
tudes I know. He has just said that fiction is stranger 
than truth. He says that I — that people that write could 
never interest people who read if they wrote of things as 
they really are. He thinks that life is commonplace and 
uneventful." 

"And I am sure Mr. Gordon will agree with me," said 
the General. "He has seen more of the world than any of 
us, and he will tell you I am sure, that what happens only 
suggests the story : It is not complete in itself. ' ' 

Gordon had been turning the stem of his glass slowly be- 
tween his thumb and his finger, while the others were talk- 
ing, and looking down at it smiling. Now he said, "I am 
afraid, Sir Henry, that I don't agree with you at all. You 
have all seen sunsets sometimes that you knew would be 
laughed at if anyone tried to paint them. We all knew 



Material for Interpretation 189 

such a story, something in our own lives, or in the lives 
of our friends. Not ghost stories, or stories of adventure, 
but of ambitions that come to nothing, of people who were 
rewarded or punished in this world instead of the next, 
and love stories. ' ' 

"Tell it, Gordon/' said Mr. Trevelyan. 

"Yes," said Gordon, "I was thinking of a particular 
story. It is as complete, I think, and as dramatic as any 
of those we read. It is about a man I met in Africa. It 
is not a long story, but it ends badly. 

"We were on our return march from Lake Tchad to 
Mobangi. We had been traveling over a month, some- 
times by water, and sometimes through the forest. In the 
middle of the jungle late one afternoon, I found this man 
lying at the foot of a tree. He had been cut and beaten 
and left for dead. We believed we were the only white 
men that had ever succeeded in getting that far South, 
and we could no more account for that man's presence 
than if he had been dropped from the clouds. Lieutenant 
Royce, my surgeon, went to work at him ; in about an hour 
the man said, ' Thank God ! ' — because we were white men, I 
suppose. He asked Royce in a whisper if he had long 
to live, Royce told him he did not think he could live for 
more than an hour or two. The man moved his head to 
show that he understood, and raised his hand to his throat 
and began pulling at his shirt, but the effort sent him off 
into a fainting fit again. I opened his collar for him as 
gently as I could, and found his fingers had clinched around 
a silver necklace that he wore about his neck, and from 
which there hung a gold locket shaped like a heart." 

Gordon raised his eyes slowly to those of the American 
girl who sat opposite. She had heard his story so far 
without any show of emotion. But now, at Gordon's last 



190 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

words, she turned her eyes to him with a look of awful 
indignation, which was followed by one of fear and almost 
of entreaty. 

"When the man came to, he begged me to take the chain 
and locket to a girl whom he said I would find either in 
London or in New York. He gave me the address of her 
banker. He said: 'Take it off my neck before you bury 
me; tell her I wore it ever since she gave it to me. That 
it has been a charm and a loadstone to me. That when 
the locket rose and fell against my breast, it was as if her 
heart was pressing against mine and answering the beat- 
ing and throbbing of the blood in my veins.' 

"The man did not die. Royce brought him back into 
such form again that in about a week we were able to take 
him along with us on a litter. But he was very weak, and 
would lie for hours asleep when we rested, or mumbling or 
raving in a fever. "We learned from him, at odd times, that 
he had been trying to reach Lake Tchad, to do what we had 
done, without any means of doing it, and his men had 
turned on him and left him as we had found him. He 
had undertaken the expedition on a promise from the 
French government to make him governor of the territory 
he opened up if he succeeded, but he had no official help. 
If he failed he got nothing; if he succeeded, he did so at 
his own expense and by his own endeavors. It was only a 
wonder he had been able to get as far as he did. He did 
not seem to feel the failure of his expedition. All that 
was lost in the happiness of getting back alive to this 
woman with whom he was in love. I have read about men 
in love, I have seen it on the stage, I have seen it in real 
life, but I never saw a man so grateful to God and so happy 
and so insane over a woman as this man was. She must 
have been a very remarkable girl. He had met her first 



Material for Interpretation 191 

the year before, on one of the Italian steamers that ply 
from New York to Gibraltar, and in that time the girl had 
fallen in love with him, and had promised to marry him if 
he would let her, for he was very proud. He had to be. 
He had absolutely nothing to offer her. She is very well 
known at home. I mean her family is ; they have lived in 
New York from its first days, and they are very rich. The 
girl had lived a life as different from his, as the life of a 
girl in society must be from that of a vagabond. He had 
been an engineer, a newspaper correspondent, an officer 
in a Chinese army, and had built bridges in South Amer- 
ica, had seen service on the desert in the French army of 
Algiers. He had no home or nationality even, for he had 
left America when he was sixteen. Yet you can see how 
such a man would attract a young impressionable girl, who 
had met only those men whose actions are bounded by the 
courts, or law, or Wall Street, or the younger set who 
drive coaches and who live the life of the clubs. He told 
her when they separated that if he succeeded — if he opened 
this unknown country, if he was rewarded as they had 
promised to reward him — he might dare to come to her ; and 
she called him her knight-errant, and gave him her chain 
and locket to wear, and told him whether he failed or suc- 
ceeded it meant nothing to her, and that her life was his 
while it lasted and her soul as well. I think that those 
were her words as he repeated them to me. ' ' 

He raised his eyes thoughtfully towards the face of the 
girl opposite and then glanced past her, as if trying to re- 
call the words the man had used. The fine beautiful face 
of the woman was white and drawn about the lips, and she 
gave a quick appealing glance at her hostess, as if she 
would beg to be allowed to go. But Mrs. Trevelyan and 
her guests were watching Gordon. 



192 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"You can imagine a man finding a cab slow when he is 
riding from the station to see the woman he loves; but 
imagine this man urging himself and the rest of us to 
hurry when we were in the heart of Africa, with six months' 
travel ahead of us before we could reach the first limits of 
civilization. That is what this man did, It used to 
frighten me to see how much he cared. Well, we got out 
of it at last and reached Alexandria. He became very quiet 
as soon as we were really under way. He would sit in 
silence in his steamer chair for hours, looking out at the 
sea and smiling to himself. I do not know whether it was 
that the excitement of the journey overland had kept him 
up or not, but as we went on he became much weaker and 
slept more, until Royce became anxious and alarmed about 
him. But he did not know it himself; he had grown so 
sure of his recovery then that he did not understand what 
the weakness meant. He fell off into long spells of sleep 
or unconsciousness, and woke only to be fed, and would then 
fall back to sleep again. And in one of these spells of un- 
consciousness he died. He died within two days of land. 
He left nothing behind him, for the very clothes he wore 
were those we had given him — nothing but the locket and 
the chain which he had told me to take from his neck when 
he died." 

He stopped and ran his fingers down into his pocket and 
pulled out a little leather bag. The people at the table 
watched him with silence as he opened it and took out a 
dull silver chain with a gold heart hanging from it. 

"This is it," he said gently. He leaned across the table, 
with his eyes fixed on those of the American girl, and 
dropped the chain in front of her. "Would you like to 
see it?" 

The rest moved curiously forward to look at the little 



Material for Interpretation 193 

heap of gold and silver as it lay on the white cloth. But 
the girl, with her eyes half closed and her lips pressed 
together, pushed it on with her hand to the man who sat 
next to her, and bowed her head slightly, as though it was 
an effort for her to move at all. 

"Well," said General Kent, "if all true stories turn out 
as badly as that .one does, I will take back what I said 
against those the story writers tell. I call it a most un- 
pleasant story." 

"And it isn't finished yet," said Gordon. "There is 
still a little more." 

"But then," said the wife of the Austrian minister, "you 
cannot bring the man back to life." 

"No, but I can make it a little worse. The first day I 
reached London, I went to her banker's and got her ad- 
dress and I wrote saying I wanted to see her, but before I 
could get an answer I met her the next afternoon at a 
garden party. At least I did not meet her; she was pointed 
out to me. I saw a very beautiful girl surrounded by a 
lot of men, and asked who she was, and found out it was 
the woman I had written to, the owner of the chain and 
locket and T was also told that her engagement had been 
announced to a young Englishman of family and position, 
w r ho had known her only a few months, and with whom 
she was very much in love. So, you see, that it was better 
that he died, believing in her and in her love for him. Mr. 
Philips here would have let him live to return and find her 
married; but Nature is kinder than writers of fiction and 
quite as dramatic." 

Philips did not reply to this and the General only shook 
his head doubtfully and said nothing. So Mrs. Trevelyan 
looked at Lady Arbuthnot and the ladies rose and left the 
room. Miss Egerton, saying that it was warm, stepped out 



194 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

through one of the high windows on to the little balcony 
that overhung the garden. She trembled slightly and the 
blood in her veins was hot and tingling. Then a figure 
blocked the light from the window and Gordon stepped 
out of it and stood in front of her with the chain and 
locket in his hand. He held it towards her and they 
faced one another for a moment in silence. 

"Will you take it now?" 

The girl raised her head, and drew herself up until she 
stood straight and tall before him. "Have you not pun- 
ished me enough?" she asked in a whisper. "Are you not 
satisfied? Was it brave? Was it manly? Is that what 
you have learned among your savages — to torture a 
woman ? ' ' 

Gordon observed her curiously, with cold consideration. 

"What of the sufferings of the man to whom you gave 
this? Why not consider him? What was your bad quar- 
ter of an hour at the table, with your friends around you, 
to the year he suffered danger and physical pain for you 
— for you, remember?" 

"They told me he was dead. Then it was denied, then 
the French papers told it again, and with horrible detail 
and how it happened. ' ' 

"And does your love come and go w r ith the editions of 
the daily papers? If they say tomorrow morning that 
Arbuthnot is false to the principles of his party, that he is 
a bribe-taker, a man who sells his vote, will you believe 
them and stop loving him? Is that the love, the soul, the 
life you promised the man — " 

The tall figure of young Arbuthnot appeared in the 
opening of the window. "Miss Egerton? Is she here? 
Oh! Is that you? I was sent to look for you. They 
were afraid something was wrong. It has been rather a 



Material for Interpretation . 195 

hard week, and it has kept one pretty well on the go all 
the time, and I thought Miss Egerton looked tired at din- 
ner. I came to tell you Lady Arbuthnot is going. She 
is waiting for you. Good night, Gordon; thank you for 
your story and yet, I can't help thinking you were guilty 
of doing just what you accused Philips of doing. I some- . 
how thought you helped the true story out a little. Now 
didn't you? Was it all just as you told it? Or am I 
wrong ? ' ' 

"No, you are right. I did change it a little in one 
particular. ' ' 

"And what was that, may I ask?" said Arbuthnot. 

"The man did not die." 

' ' Poor devil ! poor chap ! But then if he is not dead how 
did you get the chain?" 

The girl's arm within his own moved slightly, and her 
fingers tightened their hold. 

"Oh," said Gordon, indifferently, "it did not mean any- 
thing to him, you see, when he found he had lost her, and 
it could not mean anything to her. It is of no value. It 
means nothing to anyone — except, perhaps to me." 

Richard Harding Davis. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



THE LOST JOY 

All day, where the simlight played on the sea-shore, Life 
sat. 

All day the soft wind played with her hair, and the 
young, young face looked out across the water. She was 
waiting; but she could not tell for what. 

All day the waves ran up and up on the sand, and ran 



196 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

back again, and the pink shells rolled. Life sat waiting ; all 
day, with the sunlight in her eyes, she sat there, till, 
grown weary, she laid her head upon her knees and fell 
asleep, waiting still. 

Then a keel grated on the sand, and then a step was on 
the shore — Life awoke and heard it. A hand was laid upon 
her, and a great shudder passed through her. She looked 
up, and saw over her the strange, wide eyes of Love — and 
Life now knew for whom she had sat there waiting. 

And Love drew Life up to him. 

And of that meeting was born a thing rare and beautiful 
— Joy, First-Joy was it called. The sunlight when it 
shines upon the merry water is not so glad; the rosebuds, 
when they turn back their lips for the sun's first kiss, are 
not so ruddy. It never spoke, but it laughed and played 
in the sunshine; and Love and Life rejoiced exceedingly. 
Neither whispered it to the other, but deep in its own heart 
each said, "It shall be ours forever." 

Then there came a time — was it after weeks ? was it after 
months? (Love and Life do not measure time) — when the 
thing was not as it had been. 

Still it played ; still it laughed ; still it stained its mouth 
with purple berries; but sometimes the little hands hung 
weary, and the little eyes looked out heavily across the 
water. 

And Life and Love dared not look into each other's 
eyes, dared not say, "What ails our darling V 9 Each heart 
whispered to itself, "It is nothing, it is nothing, to-morrow 
it will laugh out clear." But to-morrow and to-morrow 
came. They journeyed on, and the child played beside 
them, but heavily, more heavily. 

One day Life and Love lay down to sleep ; and when they 
awoke, it was gone; only, near them, on the grass, sat a 



Material for Interpretation 197 

little stranger with wide open eyes, very soft and sad. 
Neither noticed it; but they walked apart, weaping bit- 
terly. 

The little soft and sad-eyed stranger slipped a hand into 
one hand of each, and drew them closer, and Life and Love 
walked on with it between them. And when Life looked 
down in anguish, she saw her tears reflected in its soft eyes. 
And when Love, mad with pain, cried out, "I am weary, I 
am weary! I can journey no further. The light is all be- 
hind, the dark is all before," a little rosy finger pointed 
where the sunlight lay upon the hillsides. Always its large 
eyes were sad and thoughtful ; always the little brave mouth 
was smiling quietly. 

When on the sharp stones Life cut her feet, he wiped 
the blood upon his garments, and kissed the wounded feet 
with his little lips. When in the desert Love la} 7 down 
faint (for Love itself grows faint), he ran over the hot 
sand with his little naked feet, and even there in the desert 
found water in the holes in the rocks to moisten Love's 
lips. He was no burden — he never weighted them ; he only 
helped them forward on their journey. 

When they came to the dark ravine where the icicles 
hang from the rocks — for Love and Life must pass through 
strange drear places — there, where all is cold, and the snow 
lies thick, he took their freezing hands and held them 
against his beating little heart, and warmed them — and 
softly he drew them on and on through the dark lands and 
through the light. 

At last they came to where Reflection sits; that strange 
old woman, who has always one elbow on her knee, and her 
chin in her hand, and who steals light out of the past to shed 
it on the future. 

And Life and Love cried out, "0 wise one! tell us: when 



198 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

first we met, a lovely radiant thing belonged to us — glad- 
ness without a tear, sunshine without a shade. How did 
we sin that we lost it? Where shall we go that we may 
find it?" 

And she, the wise old woman, answered, "To have it 
back, will you give up that which walks beside you now?" 

"Give up this!" said Life. "When the thorns have 
pierced me, who will suck the poison out ? When my head 
throbs, who will lay his tiny hands upon it and still the 
beating? In the cold and the dark, who will warm my 
freezing heart ? ' ' 

And Love cried out, "Better let me die! Without Joy 
I can live; without this I cannot." 

And the wise old woman answered, "0 fools and blind! 
What you once had is that which you have now! When 
Love and Life first meet, a radiant thing is born, without 
a shade. When the roads begin to roughen, when the shades 
begin to darken, when the days are hard, and the nights 
cold and long — then it begins to change. Love and Life 
will not see it, will not know it — till one day they start up 
suddenly, crying, 'We have lost it! Where is it?' They 
do not understand that they could not carry the laughing 
thing unchanged into the desert, and the frost, and the 
snow. They do not know that what walks beside them still 
is the Joy grown older. The grave, sweet, tender thing — 
warm in the coldest snows, brave in the dreariest deserts — 
its name is Sympathy; it is the Perfect Love." 

Olive Schreiner. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



Material for Interpretation 199 

EXTRA PAPER 1 

"Look at me comin' over to your house, an' me with the 
lamps not filled, nor the chamber work done, nor the floor 
brushed up around. But you can know 't what I Ve come 
for hasn't got anybody dead in, because my dishes are 
washed up. My dishes are left standin' for nobody but 
the dead, an' them took off suddenly or else me expected 
over to help make the funeral nice. No, nobody 's dead, 
I 'm pleased to state — at least, nobody new. The new 
editor made that a local in the 'Evenin' Daily' the other 
night, gettin' just desperate because nothin' happened to 
anybody in the town — an' it was what come out of that 
while you was away that I come over to tell you about. 

"The editor didn't have a thing for his locals that day, 
so he just thought of all his friends, an' he run right down 
the news item column tellin' what there was n't. Like this : 

Supper Table Jottings 

Postmaster Silas Sykes is well. 

Timothy Toplady has not had a cold yet this winter. 
Prudent Timothy. 

Jimmy Sturgis has not broken his leg yet this winter, 
as he did last. Keep it up, Jimmy. 

Eppleby Holcomb has not been out of town for quite a 
while. 

None of the Friendship ladies has given a party all 
winter. 

The First Church is not burnt nor damaged nor repaired. 
Insurance, $750.00. 

i Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "Mothers To 
Men" by Zona Gale. Copyright by the Macmillan Co. 



200 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Nobody is dead here to-day except the usual ones. 
Nobody that 's got a telephone in has any company at 
the present writing. Where is the old-time hospitality? 
Subscriptions payable in advance. 

"It made quite some fun for us, two or three of us hap- 
penin' in the post-office store when the paper come out — 
Mis' Sykes an' Miss Toplady an' me. But we took it some 
to heart, too, because to live in a town where they ain't noth- 
in' active happenin' is a kind of runnin' account of every- 
body that 's in it. An' us ladies wa'n't that Jkind, but all 
them locals done to Silas Sykes, that keeps the post-office 
store, was to set him fussin' over nothin' ever happenin' 
to him. 

" 'My dum!' he says, 'that 's just the way with life in 
this town. If I thought I was goin' to get sold in my death 
like I 've been in my life, I swan I 'd lose my interest in 
dyin'.' 

"Mis' Timothy Toplady was over in behind the counter 
pickin' out her butter, an' she whirled around from 
samplin' the jars, an' she says to Mis' Sykes an' me: 

" 'Ladies,' she says, 'le's us propose it to the editor, that 
seems to have such a hard job, that us members of the 
Cemetery Improvement ^Sodality take hold of his paper for 
a day an' get it out for him an' put some news in it an' 
sell it to everybody, subscribers an' all, that one night, for 
ten cents. 

"Mis' Silas Sykes looks up an' stopped winkin' an' 
breathin', in a way she has when she sights some distant 
money for Sodality. 

" 'Land, Land!' she says. 'I bet it 'd take like a warm 
meal.' 

"Silas he snorts, scorchin': 



Material for Interpretation 201 

" 'Will you ladies tell me/ he says, 'where you going to 
get your news to put in your paper? Onless you commit 
murder an' arson an' runaways, there won't be any more 
in your paper than they is in its editor's.' 

"That hit a tender town-point, an' I couldn't stand it 
no longer. I spoke right up. 

il 'Oh. I dunno, I dunno, Silas,' I says. 'They 's those 
in this town that 's doin' the murderin' fer us, neat an' nice, 
right along,' I told him. 

" 'Mean to say — ' snapped Silas. 

" 'Mean to say,' says I, ' 'most every grocery store in 
this town, an' 'most every milkman, an' the meat market as 
well, is doin' their best to drag the health out o' people's 
systems for 'em. Us ladies is more or less well read an' 
knowledgeable of what is goin' on in the world outside,' I 
says to Silas — that ain't, 'an' we know a thing or two 
about what ought to be clean.' 

" 'Pack o' women!' says Silas now, an' went off to find 
black molasses for somebody. 

"I remember how us three women looked at each other 
then, like our brain was experimentin' with our ideas. An' 
when Mis' Toplady got her butter, we slipped out, an' 
spoke together for a few minutes up past the Town Pump. 
An' it was there, the plan come to a head, an' we see that 
we had a way of pickin' purses right off of every day, so be 
the editor would leave us go ahead; an' of doin' other 
things. 

"The very next morning we three went to see the editor 
an' get his consent. He was new and from the city and 
real nervous. We explained our plan and he said he had 
been thinking about a trout stream, and he guessed he 
needed a day off. He said he was afraid we could n 't col- 
lect ten cents a copy — he had n 't been able to collect much 



202 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

of anything. But when we mentioned news, he looked 
positively startled. 'News!' said he. 'Oh, I say now, you 
mustn't expect too much. I ought to warn you that run- 
ning a paper in this town is like trying to raise cream on a 
cistern. ' 

"Mis' Toplady smiled at him motherly. 'You ain't 
ever tried pouring the cream into the cistern, I guess, ' she 
says. 

"So we settled it into a bargain. Of course the Sodality 
hadn't voted on it yet, but there was n't much doubt what 
they 'd vote with $60.00 in sight, which we 'd make if 
everybody bought a paper. The members of the Sodality 
scraps among themselves personal, but when we pitch in to 
work for something, we sew rags an' scallop oysters in the 
same pan with our enemies. I tell you, it makes me feel 
sometimes that the way ain't too much to try to love each 
other — which other folks' peculiarities is awful in the way 
of —but for us all to pitch in an ' love somethin ' all together 
— your town, or your young folks, or your cemetery, or 
keepin' somethin' clean, or makin' somethin' look nice — 
an' before you know it you 're lovin' the folks you work 
with, no matter how peculiar. Don't it seem as if that 
must mean somethin'? Somethin' big? 

"Sodality voted to publish the paper, all right, and 
elected the officers for the day: Editor, Mis' Postmaster 
Sykes — 'count of her always expectin' to take the lead in 
everything; Assistant Editor, me, 'count of bein' well an' 
able to work like a dog; Business Manager an' circulation 
man, Mis' Holcomb-that-was Mame Bliss, 'count of no dime 
ever gettin' away from her unexpected. An' the reporters 
was to be most of the rest of the Sodality. 

"I guess we was all glad that we was to go down early 
in the mornin' that day, 'count o' not meetin' the men. 



Material for Interpretation 203 

One an' all an' with one voice the Friendship men had 
railed at us hearty. 

"Only Eppleby Holcomb had kep' his silence. Eppleby 
is one of them men that ain't never wore blinkers. Now 
an' then it makes him some skittish, but oh, I tell you, Ep- 
pleby sees things that the run o' men don' see, and Eppleby 
was our friend. 

"So, though we went ahead, the men had ma.de us real 
anxious. An' when the day come, most of us slipped down 
to the office by half-past seven so 's not to meet too many. 
The editor had a column in the paper about what we was 
goin' to do — 'Loyal to our Local Dead,' he headed it, 
an' of course full half the town was kickin' at the extra 
ten cents, like full half of any town can an' will kick 
when it 's asked to pay out for its own good, dead or 
alive. 

"Extra paper mornin', when we all come in, Mis' Sykes 
she was sittin' at the editor's desk with her big apron on, 
an' a green shade to cover up her crimpin'-kids, an' her 
list that her an' Mis' Toplady an' I had made out, in 
front of her. 

" 'Now then let 's get right to work,' she says, brisk. 
'We ain't aijy too much time, I can tell you. It ain't like 
bakin' bread or gettin' the vegetables ready. We 've all 
got to use muscles this day we ain't used to usin',' she 
says, 'an' we 'd best be spry.' 

"So then she begun givin' out who was to do what — 
'assignments,' the editor named it when he told us what 
to do. 

" 'Mis' Toplady, you go out to Bob Henney's place, an' 
you go through his cow-sheds, from one end to the other an' 
take" down notes so 's he sees you doin' it. You go into his 
springhouse an' into his kitchen, an' don't you let a can 



204 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

get by you. Open his churn. Rub your finger round the 
inside of his pans. Explain to him you 're goin' to give 
him a nice, full, printed description in to-night's "daily," 
just the way things are. If he wants it changed any, he 
can clean all up, an' we '11 write up the clean-up like a 
compliment. ' 

" 'Mis Uppers, you go down to Betts' meat-market. You 
poke right through into the back room. An' you tell Joe 
Betts that you 're going to do a write-up of that room an' 
the alley back of it for the paper to-night, showin' just 
what 's what. If so be he wants to turn in an' red it up 
this mornin', tell him you '11 wait till noon an' describe it 
then, providin' he agrees to keep it that way. An' you 
might let him know you 're goin' to run over to his 
slaughterhouse an' look around while you 're waitin', an' 
put that in your write-up, too.' 

iC 'Mis' Merriman, I '11 give you a real hard thing be- 
cause you do things so delicate. Will you take a walk 
along the residence part of town an' go into every house 
an' ask 'em to let you see their back doors an' their gar- 
bage pile? Tell 'em you 're goin' to write a couple of 
columns on how folks manage this. Ask 'em for their ideas 
on the best way. Give 'em to understand, if there 's a 
real good way they 're thinkin' of tryin', that you '11 put 
that in, providin ' they begin tryin ' right off. An ' tell 'em 
they can get their garbage carted off for ten cents a week 
if enough go in on it. An' you be most delicate, Mis' Fire 
Chief, for we don't want to offend a soul.' 

"Libby an' Viney Liberty Mis' Sykes sent round to take 
a straw vote in every business house in town to see how 
much they 'd give towards startin' a shelf library in the 
corner of the postoffice store, a full list to be printed in 
order with the amount, or el&e 'Not a cent' after each name. 



Material for Interpretation 205 

An' the rest o' Sodality she give urrants similar, or even 
more so. 

" 'An' all o' you/ says Mis' Sykes, 'pick up what you can 
on the way. An' if anybody starts in to object, you tell 
'em you have instructions to make an interview out of any 
of the intercom' things they say; You know what you 've 
got to do — do it to the bitter end.' 

"Well, sir, they started off — some scairt — but some real 
brave too. An' the way they went, we see every one of 'em 
meant business. 

"I made straight for Silas Sykes an' the post office 
store. Silas wa'n't in the store, it was so early; but he 
had the floor all sprinkled nice, an' the vegetables set out, 
all uncovered, close to the sidewalk; an' everything real 
tasty an' accordin' to grocery-store etiquette. An' Silas 
himself was in the back room, sortin' over prunes. 

' ' ' Hello, Calliope ! ' s ' he. ' How 's liter '-choor ? ' 

" 'Honest as ever,' I says. 'Same with food?' 

" '"Who says I ain't honest?' says Silas, straightenin' up, 
an' holdin' all his fingers stiff 'count o' bein' sticky. 

" 'Why, I dunno who,' says I. 'Had anybody ought to? 
How 's business, Silas?' 

" 'Well,' says he, 'for us that keeps ourselves up with 
the modern business methods, it 's pretty good, I guess.' 

" 'Do you mean pretty good, Silas, or do you mean pretty 
payin'?' I ask' him. 

"Silas put on his best official manner. 'Look at here,' 
s'e, 'what can I do for you? Did you want to buy some- 
thin' or did you want your mail?' 

" 'Oh, neither,' I says. 'I want some help from you, 
Silas, about the paper today. ' 

' ' My ! that give Silas a nice minute ! He fairly weltered 
in satisfaction. 



206 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

M 'Huh!' he says, elegant, 'didn't I tell you you was 
bitin' off more 'n you could chew? Want some assistance 
from me, do you, in editin' this paper o' yours? Well, I 
suppose I can help you out a little. What is it you want 
me to do for you ? ' 

" 'We thought we 'd like to write you up,- I told him. 

"Silas just swelled. For a man not in public office, Silas 
Sykes feels about as presidential as anybody I ever see. If 
they was to come out from the city an' put him on the front 
page o' the mornin' paper, he 's the kind that would wonder 
why they had n 't done it before. 

"Sketch of my life?' s'e, genial. 'Little outline of my 
boyhood? Main points in my career?' 

1 ' ' Well, ' I says, ' no. We thought the present 'd be about 
all we 'd hev room for. We want to write up your busi- 
ness, Silas,' I says, in an advertisin' way. 

■i* 'Oh! You want me to pay to be wrote up, is that 
it?' 

" 'Well,' I says, 'no, not if you don't want to. Of 
course, everybody 11 be buried in the cemetery, whether 
they give anything towards the fund for keepin' it kep' up 
or not.' 

" 'Lord heavens!' says Silas. 'I 've had that Cemetery 
Fund rammed down my throat till I 'm sick o' the thought 
o' dyin'!' 

"That almost made me mad, seein' we was hevin' the 
disadvantages o ' doin ' the work an ' Silas was goin ' to get 
all the advantages o' burial. 

" 'Feel the same way about some o' the Ten Command- 
ments, don't you, Silas?' I says, before I knew it. 

''Silas just roared. 'The Ten Commandments!' says he. 
'The Ten Commandments! Who can show me one I ain't 
a-keepin ' like an old sheep ? Did n 't I honor my father an ' 



Material for Interpretation 207 

mother as long as I had 'em? Did they ever buy anything 
of me at more than cost ? Did n't I give 'em new clothes 
an' send 'em boxes of oranges an' keep up their life insur- 
ance? Do I ever come down to the store on the Sabbath 
day? Do I ever distribute the mail then, even if I 'm ex- 
pectin' a letter myself? The Sabbath I locked the cat in, 
didn't I send the boy down to let it out for fear I 'd be 
misjudged if I done it ? Who do I ever bear false witness 
against unless I know they 've done what I say they 've 
done? I can't kill a fly — an' I 'm that fool tender-hearted 
that I make _ the boy take the mice out o' the trap because 
I can't bring myself to it. So you might go through the 
whole list an' just find me workin' at 'em an' a-keepin' 'em. 
What do you mean about the Ten Commandments?' he 
ends up, ready to burst. 

" ' Don't ask me,' I says. 'I ain't that familiar with 
'em. I didn't know anybody was. Go on about 'em. 
Take stealin' — you hadn't got to that one.' 

cc l Stealin'!' says Silas, pompous, 'I don't know what it 
is.' 

"And with that I was up on my feet. 'I thought you 
didn't,' says I. 'Us ladies of the Sodality have all said 
it over an' over again — that you don't know stealin' when 
you see it. No, nor not even when you 've done it. Come 
here, Silas Sykes!' I says. 

"I whipped by him into the store, and he followed me, 
sheer through bein' dazed, an' keepin' still through bein' 
knocked dumb. 

"Look here, here 's your counter of bakery stuff. Where 
do you get it? What 's the bakery like where you buy it? 
It 's under a sidewalk and filthy dirty, and I happen to 
know you know it. And look at the bread — not a thing 
over it, flies keepin' house on the crust, an' you countin' 



208 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

out change on an apple pie the other day — I see you do it. 
Look at your dates, all uncovered, and dirt from the street 
stickin' to 'em like a pattern. Look at your fly-paper, 
hugged up against your dried fruit box that 's standin' 
wide open. Look at you, keepin' fish an' preserved fruit 
an' canned stuff that you know is against the law — Goin' 
to start keepin' the law quick as you get these sold out, 
ain't you, Silas? Look at your stuff out there in front, 
full o' street dirt and flies an' ready to feed folks. An' 
you keepin' the Ten Commandments like an old sheep — an' 
bein' a Church elder, an' you -might better climb porches 
an' bust open safes. I s'pose you wonder what I 'hi sayin' 
all this to you for?' 

M 'No, rna'am,' says Silas, like the edge o' somethin', 'I 
don't wonder at your saying^anything to anybody.' 

" 'I 've got more to say,' I says, dry. 'I 've only give 
you a sample. An' the place I 'm goin' to say it is in the 
Friendship Village "Evening Daily" Extra, tonight, in a 
descriptive write-up of you and your store. I thought it 
might interest you to know.' 

" 'It 's libel — it ? s libel!' says Silas, arms wavin'. 

" 'Is there a word of it ain't true?' I says to him, liber- 
atin' a fly accident 'ly caught on a date. 'Who you goin' 
to sue? Your wife, that is the editor? An' everybody 
else 's wife, that 's doing the same thing to every behind-the- 
times dealer in town?' 

"Silas hung on to that straw. 'Be they doin' it to the 
others, too ? ' he asks. 

"Then I told him. 'Yes,' I says, 'Silas, only — they ain't 
going to start writin' up the descriptions till noon. An' 
if you — and they all — want to clean up the temples where 
you do business an' make 'em fit for the Lord to look down 
on an' a human bein' to come into, you Ve got your chance. 



Material for Interpretation 209 

An' seein' your boy is gone today, if you '11 do it — I '11 stay 
an' help you with it. An' mebbe make room for some of 
the main points in your career as well,' says I sly. 

"Silas looked out the door, his arms folded, an' his beard 
almost pointin' up, he 'd made his chin so firm. And just 
in that minute, when I was feelin' that all the law an' the 
prophets, an' the health of Friendship Village, an' the life 
of people not born was hangin' around that man's neck — 
or the principle of 'em anyway — Silas' eye an' mine fell 
on a strange sight. Across the street from Joe Betts' meat- 
rket — come out Joe Betts, and behind him his boy. And 
Joe begun pointin' an' the boy begun takin' down quarters 
o' beef hung over the sidewalk. Joe pointed consid'able. 
An' then he clim' up on his meat-wagon that stood by the 
door, an' out of the shop I see Mis' Mayor Uppers come, 
lookin' ready to drop. An' she clim' up to the seat beside 
him — he reachin' down real gentlemanly to help her up. 
An' he headed his horse around on what I knew was a bee- 
line for the slaughter-house. 

"Well, sir, at that, Silas Sykes put his hands on his 
knees an' bent over an' begun laughin'. An' he laughed 
like I ain't seen him since he 's got old and begun to 
believe that life ain't cut after his own plan that he made. 
An' I laughed a little, too, out o' sheer bein' glad that a 
laugh can settle so many things right in the world. And 
when I sobered down a little, I says, gentle : 

" ' Silas, I '11 throw out the dates an' the dusty lettuce. 
An' you take down the unlawful canned goods. An' we '11 
hev done in no time. T '11 be glad to get an early start on 
Ihe write-up. I don't compose very ready,' I told him. 

"Tie was awfully funny while we done the work. He 
was awful still, too. Once when I lit on a piece of salt 
nork that I knew, first look, was rusty, 'them folks down on 



210 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

the flats buys it/ he says. 'They like it just as good as 
new-killed. ' 

" 'All right/ s'l, careless; 'I '11 make a note o' that to 
shine in my article. It needs humor some/ s' I. 

"Then Silas swore, soft an' under his breath, as an 
elder should, but quite vital. An' he took the pork out in 
the alley, an' I stomped it down in the dirt so 's he 
wouldn't slip out an' save it. 

"It was 'leven o'clock when we got done — me havin' 
swept out behind the counters myself. An' Silas he 
mopped his face an' stood haulin' at his collar. 

"When I got back to the office, Mis' Sykes at the main 
desk was still laborin' over her editorial, breathin' hard. 

' ' ' How was he ? ' she asks, in a pale voice. 

" 'He was crusty/ says I, triumphant, 'but he \s beat.' 

"She never smiled. ' Calliope Marsh/ says she, cold, 'if 
you Ve sassed my husband I '11 never forgive you again.' 

' ' I tell you, men may be some funny, and often are. But 
women is odd as Dick's hatband, an' I don't know but 
odder. Well, we 'd all had pretty good luck except Mis' 
Toplady. The tears was near streamin' down her face. 

" 'Bob Henney gimme to understand he 'd see me in — 
some place he had n't ought to 'a' spoke of to me, nor to no 
one — before I could get in his milk-sheds, and I t-told him, 
"that lookin' for me wouldn't be the only reason he 'd 
hev for goin' there." An' then he said some more. He 
said he 'd be in here this afternoon to stop his subscrip- 
tion. ' 

" 'So you didn't get a thing,' I says, grievin' for her; 
but Mis' Toplady, she bridled through her tears. 

" 'I got a column: I put in about the sheds, that the 
whole town knows anyway, an' I put in what he said to me. 
An' I 'm goin' to read it to him when he comes in. An' 



Material for Interpretation 211 

after that he can take his choice about havin' it published, 
or else cleanin' up an' allowin' Sodality to inspect him 
reg'lar.' 

11 Just before twelve o'clock we was all back in the office,. 
Mis' Fire Chief, from bein' delicate, Mis' Uppers, fresh 
from the slaughter-house, an' so on, all but Mame Hol- 
comb that was out seein' to the circulation. An' I tell you 
we set to work in earnest, some of us to the desks, an ' some 
of us workin' on their laps, an' everybody hurryin' hectic. 

" Ain't it strange how slow the writin' muscles an' such 
is, that you don't use often? Pittin' cherries, splittin' 
squash, peelin' potatoes, slicin' apples, makin" change at 
Church suppers — us ladies is lightnin' at 'em all. But set- 
tin' down ideas on paper — I declare if it ain't more like 
waitin' around for your bread to raise on a cold mornin'. 
Still, when you 're worried you can press forward more 
than normal, an' among us we got some material ready for 
the composing room — Riddy Styles had charge of that. 

"But four o'clock come racin' across the day like a run- 
away horse, an' us not out of its way. An' a few minutes 
past, when Riddy was waitin' in the door for Mis' Sykes's 
last page, somebody 'most knocked him over, an' there 
comes Mis' Holcomb, our circulation editor, purple an' 
white, like ghost. 

" 'Lock the door — lock it!' says she. 'I Ve bolted the 
one to the foot of the stairs. Lock both outside ones an' 
lay yourselves low!' 

"Riddy an' I done the lockin', me well knowin' Mis' 
Holcomb couldn't give a false alarm no more than a map 
could. 

" 'What is it?' we says, pressin' Mis' Holcomb to speak, 
that couldn't even breathe. 

! ' ' Oh, ladies, they 've rejoined us, or whatever it is they 



212 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

do. I mean they 're goin' to rejoin us from gettin' out to- 
night's paper. The sheriff 's comin' with injunctions — is 
that like handcuffs, do you know? An' it 's Bob Henney's 
doin'; Eppleby told me, and I run down the alley an' beat 
'em. They 're most here. Let 's us slap into print what 's 
wrote an' be ready with the papers the livin' minute we 
can.' 

"Mis' Sykes had shoved her green shade on to the back 
of her head, an' her crimpin '-pins was all showin' forth. 

" 'What good '11 it do us to get the paper out? We can't 
distribute 'em around with the sheriff to the front door 
with them things to put on us. ' 

"Then Mis' Holcomb smiled, with her eyes shut, where 
she sat, breathin' so hard it showed through. 

"'I come in the coal door, at the alley, ' s ' she. ' They '11 
never think o' that. Besides, the crowd '11 be in front an' 
the carrier boys too, an' they '11 want to show off out there. 
An' Eppleby knows — -he told me to — an' he '11 keep 'em 
interested out in front. Le's us each take the papers, an' 
out the coal door an ' distribute 'em around, ourselves, with- 
out the boys, an ' collect the money. ' 

"An' that was how we done. For when they come to 
the door an' found it locked, they pounded a little to show 
who was who an' who wa'n't, an' then they waited out 
there calm enough, thinkin' to stop us when the papers 
come down would be plenty time. They waited out there, 
calm an ' sure, while upstairs Bedlam went on, but noiseless. 
An ' after us ladies was done with our part, we sat huddled 
up in the office. 

"With the Sodality an' Riddy Styles an' the composing 
room men, we had above twenty carriers. Riddy an' the 
men helped us, one an' all, because of course the paper was 
a little theirs, too, an' they was interested, an' liked the lark. 



Material for Interpretation 213 

Land, land! I ain't felt so young nor so wicked since 
school as I done gettin' out that alley door* Did you ever 
think that there 's just as much fun keepin' secret about 
somethin' that may be good as sneakin' for regular bad? 
The Sodality can tell they is, an' that slippin' up a back 
alley, luggin' what you hope may be a help to the kingdom 
of God on 3'our back, is every bit as joyous feelin' astearin' 
down high things an ' holy. 

"When we finally got outside, it was supper-time, an' 
summer-seemin ' an' the whole village was buried in its 
evenin' fried mush an' potatoes or else sprinklin' their 
front yards. Us that went west got clear the whole length 
of Daphne Street in the alley without nobody sensin' what 
we was doin', or else believin' that we was doin' it orderly 
an' legitimate. An' away out by the Pump Pasture, we 
started distributin', an' we come workin' down-town, hand- 
in' out papers to the residence part like mad an' takin' in 
dimes like wild. They was so many of us, an' the ' Eve- 
nin' Daily' office was so located, that by the time Mis' 
Toplady an' I come round the corner where the men an' 
Bob Henney an' the rejoiners an' the carriers w r as loafin', 
waitin', smokin' an' secure, we didn't have many papers 
left. An' we three was the first ones back. 

" ' Evenin' paper?' says Mis' Toplady, casual, ' Friend- 
ship Village "Evening Daily" Extra? All the news for a 
dime ! ' 

"Nerver hev I see a man so truly flabbergasted as Bob 
Henney, an' he did look like death. 

" 'You 're rejoined!' he yelled — or whatever it is they 
say — 'You 're rejoined by law from printin' your papers or 
from distributin' the same.' 

" 'Why, Bob Henney,' says Mis' Toplady, 'no call to 
show fight like that. Half the town is readin ' its paper by 



214 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

now. They 've been out for three-quarters of an hour, ' she 
says. 

' ' Then soft an ' faint an ' acrost the street, we heard some- 
body laugh, an' then kind o' spat hands; an' we all looked 
up an' there in the open upstairs window of the buildin' 
opposite, we see Eppleby Holcomb an' Timothy Toplady an' 
Silas Sykes leanin' out. An' when we crossed eyes, they all 
made a little cheer like a theatre; an' then they come 
clumpin' down-stairs an' acrost to us. 

" 'Won out, didn't you, by heck?' says Silas, that can 
only see so far. 

" 'Rlisterin' Benson:' says Timothy, gleeful. 'I say we 
ain't no cause to regret our wifes' brains.' 

"But Eppleby, he never said a word. He just smiled 
slow an' a-lookin' past us. An' we knew he did n't have no 
blinkers on an' that he see our whole plan, face to face. 

"Mis' Sykes an' Mis' Toplady an' me, seein' how Bob 
Henney stood mutterin' an' beat, an' seein' how the day 
had gone, an' seein' what was what in the world an' in all 
outside of it, we looked at each other, dead tired, an' real 
happy, an' then we just dragged along home to our 
kitchens an' went to cookin' supper. But oh, it wa'n't 
our same old kitchens, nor it wa'n't our same old Friend- 
ship Village. We was in places newer an' better an' up 
higher, where we see how things are, an' how life would get 
more particular about us, if we would get a little particular 
about some more of life." 

Zona Gale. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



Material for Interpretation 215 

FOR LOVE OF MARY ELLEN 

Susan Randolph Peyton Carter was an anomaly. Her 
blood, which should have been uncompromisingly, incor- 
rigibly blue, insisted upon a riotous preponderance of red 
corpuscles ; her manners showed no symptoms of developing 
a Vere de Vere finish ; and her tastes — Mrs. Carter refused 
to admit that a descendant of the first governor of Virginia 
could have low tastes, but she confessed to other members 
of the family that Susan's friendships and ideals were a 
trial to her. 

Even at six, a Carter who was also a Peyton and a Ran- 
dolph should have shown a nice discrimination in the matter 
of associates. 

Not that Susan did not discriminate. She did. Stead- 
fastly, unswervingly, she declined all intimacy with the 
nice, blue-blooded, pretty-mannered, neatly dressed little 
girls whose mothers were upon Mrs. Carter's visiting list. 
She was not rude to them — Susan was never actually rude. 
When confronted with situations or persons not to her 
taste, she simply retired within herself and gently but 
firmly closed the door behind her. Her material body 
might be haled forth to dancing-school, to church, to chil- 
dren's parties; might be whipped or locked in a closet or 
deprived of supper ; but somewhere within her spiritual fast- 
nesses the real Susan was of the same opinion still. 

That Susan's private stock of ideas was tinged with 
democracy might be inferred from her choice of a bosom 
friend. Mary Ellen, the enterprising and grubby little 
daughter of Mrs. Rafferty — Mrs. Rafferty who had been try- 
ing to run the news-stand and tobacco shop on the corner 



216 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

since Mr. Rafferty had tired of the undertaking and dis- 
appeared. 

Mary Ellen was considerably older than Susan in years, 
and aeons older in experience; but she admitted that for a 
" swell kid" Susan was fairly intelligent and companion- 
able, and the ardent admiration of the smaller girl tickled 
her vanity. So Mary Ellen allowed herself to be adored, 
and, it must be noted to her credit, did not impart to her 
adorer, out of the fund of her worldly knowledge, any facts 
that a very small descendant of the first governor of Vir- 
ginia could not easily and safely digest. 

It was one day in April that the blow fell. Mary Ellen, 
her face smudged by application of grimy hands to tear- 
wet cheeks, announced that she was going away from Wash- 
ington, going to relatives up in Pennsylvania. Her mother 
could n 't pay the rent of the shop any longer, nor of their 
rooms either, and the doctor said he guessed Mrs. Rafferty 
would have to go to the hospital for an operation, and the 
Pennsylvania relatives seemed the only refuge for Mary 
Ellen — only maybe they wouldn't take her, and she didn't 
have any money to go with, anyway. But she did n't have 
any money to stay with, either, and her mother just cried 
and cried. 

All this and more she told to Susan while they sat on a 
bench in Dupont Circle, whither Susan had been convoyed 
by Jane, the parlor-maid, and where she had been left to 
play until called for. 

"Oh, Mary Ellen !— Oh— M-a-r-y E-1-l-e-n!" wailed small 
Susan, when the tale was told and she knew the worst. 
"Ain't it fierce?" groaned Mary Ellen. "If I jest had a 
little money, I could do somethin', maybe; but I dunno, 
and mom, she dunno, either. ' ' 

And just then, as luck would have it, Susan's grown-up 



Material for Interpretation 217 

sister came walking through the Circle, with a perfectly 
proper associate in a frock coat and top hat and spats, and 
carried Susan off, with vigorous remarks about her being a 
disgrace to the family and playing with low children and 
catching awful diseases and ideas and things. But Susan 
did not hear. She had gone inside herself and shut the 
door; for she had things to think about and could not be 
distracted by foolish, grown-up talk. 

All through the rest of the day she was very quiet, and 
when evening came she went to bed willingly, even eagerly. 
She thought until sleep caught her unaware, and just on 
the Borderland of Sleep, she had her revelation. She must 
make money for Mary Ellen. That fact had been estab- 
lished from the first ; but how was she to make it ? That 
was the question. 

There was Maria, the charwoman — but Susan was n't big 
enough to do charwork, and for the same reason she 
couldn't take in washing; and it would take too long to 
learn to rub out face wrinkles like Miss Nelson; and she 
could n 't go round sewing, because she knew nothing but 
perforated cardboard work. And then came the illumina- 
tion. Didn't the blind woman down on M Street make 
money — boxfuls of it, just by sitting on the curbstone and 
holding out a tin cup? Hadn't Susan herself, with her 
mother's full permission, stopped and dropped pennies into 
the cup? And hadn't John, the coachman, said that he 
shouldn't wonder if she made more money than he did? 
Anybody could sit and hold out a tin cup. One didn't 
have to be big and strong for that. And then Sleep opened 
the door of the Castle of Dreams, and the small girl forgot 
about financial worries in the excitement of chasing a green 
kitten with a pink tail and a face strangely like Mary 
Ellen's round and round Dupont Circle. 



218 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

But in the morning Susan went down to breakfast with 
purposeful determination in her eyes. The money-making 
idea looked as good to her by daylight as it had in the night- 
time. She would have to run away, and she would probably 
be caught and punished; but she wouldn't mind punish- 
ment, if only the evil day could be put off until after Mary 
Ellen had her money. 

She was eager to go to work at once, but, as usual, grown- 
ups were bothersome. Mrs. Carter was going shopping at 
ten o'clock and insisted upon taking her Youngest with 
her, although the Youngest objected in no uncertain voice. 
However, the expedition proved to be a blessing in disguise ; 
for Susan was left in the carriage for half an hour, just 
opposite the spot where the Blind Woman was carrying on 
a thriving business, so she had a chance to study her methods 
thoroughly and, besides, discovered something she had quite 
overlooked before. 

Fastened on the front of her waist, the woman wore a 
square of soiled cardboard on which was printed something 
that Susan could not read. She made an eager appeal to 
John, and he responded with : " l Pity a blind widow with 
six children. 7 That 's what it says, Miss." 

Susan leaned back in her seat and shut her eyes very 
tight and wrinkled her nose into funny creases. This new 
problem demanded thought. In fact, it was a staggerer. 
But the blood of the first governor of Virginia was up, and 
his small descendant refused to be staggered. If she must 
accept the responsibility of six children and widowhood in 
addition to blindness, then she must; and since a placard 
was necessary, she must have a placard. 

That afternoon, the grocer's boy, who was one of Susan's 
cherished friends, was seized upon as he went whistling 
past the side door. He was dragged up to the play-room on 



Material for Interpretation 219 

the third floor, where, with Susan as prompter, he achieved 
a masterpiece on the bottom of an old cardboard box, but 
failed completely in getting any information about the 
game to which this stage property evidently belonged. 

The next morning, when Jane led Susan forth to Dupont 
Circle, where she was to spend the morning "playing like 
a little lady," she carried the masterpiece in her largest 
picture-book. Also, she took with her an empty tomato 
can. Jane was disagreeable about the tomato can. She 
considered a wax doll more seemly and more suited to the 
social atmosphere of the Circle; but Susan was adamant. 
She preferred to play with a tomato can, and, in the end, 
she had her way. 

Susan sat demurely upon a bench until Jane had become 
fully occupied with the other servants about the Circle, and 
then, swiftly, furtively, she slipped down from her bench, 
and five minutes later her sturdy little legs were twinkling 
down Q Street. She ran until she was quite out of breath, 
and her legs were very tired, and she felt very far from 
home. Then she sat down on the curbstone under a corner 
lamp-post and pinned to the front of her red coat a slightly 
damaged piece of white cardboard bearing the legend : 
Pitty A BlinD Widdy With SIX ChildReN. 

Hardly was the placard in place and the tomato can 
firmly gripped in an unmittened hand, when a young man 
bound office-ward stopped, read, grinned, and dropped a 
penny into the can. "You need help with those six chil- 
dren, ma'am," he said gravely; and Susan's twinkling 
little black eyes looked gratefully up at him out of a solemn 
face. This being a widow with six children was serious 
matter, and she intended to take it seriously. 

One by one, passers-by, chiefly men, stared, laughed, made 
•facetious remarks, and asked foolish questions, to which 



220 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

the sad-eyed widow, looking more or less like a scared but 
defiant squirrel, made no answer beyond an eloquent rattle 
of the pennies in the tomato can. And, one by one, the 
jesters added pennies to the collection and went on their 
way laughing. 

Later, more women were abroad, and business was not so 
good. The older women showed a meddling propensity for 
asking questions; but the widow was apparently deaf and 
dumb as well as blind. Finally one of the women, meeting 
Policeman Kelly farther down town, told him that there 
was a well-dressed little girl begging up on Q Street, and 
that she ought to be taken home to her mother. So Kelly 
strolled up to investigate. 

Susan saw him coming, and, though her conscience was 
clear, her heart froze within her. As for Kelly, when his 
glance fell upon the widow he, like the other men, stopped 
and stared — but he did not laugh ; and that was not because 
he represented the solemn majesty of the law, but becaxise 
he had small children of his own at home. 

"It 's a foine day, mum," he said, in a genial, offhand 
way. " Doing well?" Susan looked into the tomato can, 
poked the contents with a fat forefinger, and held the can 
out for inspection. The policeman looked at the pile of 
pennies with friendly interest. "First-rate, whatcher goin' 
to do with all that money?" 

For a moment Susan hesitated, then, under the warming 
glow of a pair of friendly Irish eyes, she abandoned her 
policy of silence. "It 's for Mary Ellen," she explained. 

"Mary Ellen who, now?" 

"Mary Ellen Rafferty." 

" 'T is a good ould name." 

"They can't pay the rent." 



Material for Interpretation 221 

1 ' There do be Raffertys that are that way — an ' Kellys 
too." 

"And the butcher won't trust them, an' there isn't any 
fire, an' Mary Ellen could do somethin' maybe, if she had 
some money. An' the woman wiv a teacup gets lots of 
money; an' so I thought — " 

"Just so, 'twas a good idea ye had, and a kind one — 
but I 'm thinkin' maybe your mother — " 

Susan was disappointed in him. She had n't expected an 
understanding person like this to drag her mother into the 
conversation; and when he was indelicate enough to do it, 
she lapsed into profound silence. Kelly realized that he 
had blundered, and was casting about in his mind for a 
tactful method of reopening diplomatic relations, when he 
was interrupted by an elderly man whom he saluted with 
manifest respect. 

"What 's wrong, officer?" asked the newcomer, looking 
down at the tiny figure on the curb. 

Kelly's eyes twinkled, but his voice was grave. "Well, 
there 's nothing what you might call wrong, your Honor, 
but here 's a poor widdy woman with six small kids of her 
own, is tryin' to raise money to pay Mary Ellen Rafferty's 
rent, and I was thinkin' to myself, ' What 's to be done about 
this new Charity Organization ? ' " 

The old gentleman settled his glasses more firmly on his 
nose and bent over to get a better view of the Charity 
Organization. He was very tall and very dignified, and his 
clothes were for some reason or other very impressive. 
Susan had a feeling that this old gentleman, too, would 
understand about things* 

"This Mary Ellen is a friend of yours?" he asked courte- 
ously. 



222 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"Yessir." 

' ' And she is in trouble about her rent ? ' f 

Susan hesitated, but the sympathy of the eyes and the 
voice was too much for her scruples, and once more she 
plunged headlong into explanation — fervent, incoherent 
explanation that came out upside down and hind side be- 
fore and hopelessly entangled, but seemed to convey a per- 
fectly clear and lucid idea to the listener. He summed up 
the case concisely: "Mr. Rafferty has gone away, and 
Mrs. Rafferty can't pay the rent, and she 's had to give up 
her news-stand, and she has n 't any money to buy food or 
coal, and she has to go to the hospital, and there 's nobody to 
take care of Mary Ellen?" 

"Yes 'm— -yes 'm!" In her excitement, Susan rose su- 
perior to genders. 

"Well, now, I should say that all those pennies would go 
a long way toward straightening things out for Mary Ellen ; 
and if there are n 't quite enough I might put in enough 
more with them to make up what is needed. Do you happen 
to know where Mary Ellen lives, my dear?" 

Susan did know. Everything concerning Mary Ellen 
had always been too important to be forgotten. 

' ' Suppose you and I go around there and see what we can 
do about paying the rent and the butcher bill and sending 
in some things to eat — I shouldn't wonder if you know 
exactly what Mary Ellen likes best to eat." 

■ ' Chocolate 'clairs ! ' ' This was better than anything she 
had dreamed of. The old gentleman looked as if his pock- 
ets might be fairly bulging with pennies. 

"That 's right — chocolate eclairs, eh? Well, we will get 
some chocolate eclairs — and some beef and cabbage and po- 
tatoes on the side. Officers, will you be kind enough to call 
a cab for this lady and me?" 



Material for Interpretation 223 

The cab came quickly, and the old gentleman put the 
widow and her tomato can into it, and installed himself 
beside her, and they talked — oh! how those two congenial 
people talked en route to Mary Ellen's ! At the end of the 
ride, the old gentleman knew all about Susan's family, in 
eluding Clowny, the cat, and Jack, the furnace man's fox- 
terrier — and all about Mary Ellen's charms and perfec- 
tions and all about Susan's secretest longings and beliefs. 
He was the kind of an old gentleman a blind widow of six 
can confide in. 

And Susan knew all about the old gentleman's grandsons 
and the little grand-daughter he wanted and did n 't have, 
and the little daughter he would have had if she hadn't 
gone and grown up into the mother of the little boys. 

It didn't really seem a minute from the time they got 
into the cab until they were sitting on the one chair that 
Mrs. Rafferty's bedroom offered — Susan on the old gentle- 
man's knee — and were explaining to Mrs. Rafferty, sick in 
bed, and to Mary Ellen, speechless with amazement, that 
the rent was going to be paid ; and that the grocer and baker 
and butcher and milkman would soon be leaving heaps of 
things at the door ; and that Mary Ellen was going to stay 
w T ith some nice Irish people the old gentleman knew, while 
her mother was in the hospital getting well. They had a 
beautiful time — all of them. 

Going home was n 't as much fun as going to Mary Ellen 's. 
Punishment loomed large before her, and though Susan was 
willing to take it, if need be, she wished most fervently that 
she could dodge it. Perhaps the old gentleman understood 
why she grew quieter and quieter, for his voice grew gentler 
and gentler, and the eyes that looked down at the small cul- 
prit had a tender little smile in them. When the cab 
stopped before Susan's home, the old gentleman lifted her 



224 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

out and walked up to the door, holding her hand. There 
was something very encouraging about the feel of that 
large, warm, competent hand, and she wished he didn't 
have to go away. 

He didn't seem to have any idea of going. When he 
had rung the bell, he still stood by Susan 's side ; and when 
the cook opened the door, he stepped into the hall and 
handed her a card. "Good-by, little woman," he said, 
dropping the small hand as he reached the drawing-room 
door. "Run along, that 's a dear. I want to have a talk 
with your mother — but I 'm coming to see you soon, if she 
will allow it." The small girl shot a look at him — a look 
so full of gratitude and love and confidence that he had to 
take off his spectacles and wipe them immediately, because 
of a mist that unexpectedly clouded them; and then she 
scampered off toward the play-roo n, just as Mrs. Carter 
came down the stairs looking surprised and puzzled but dis- 
tinctly pleased. 

Watching through the upper balusters a half -hour later, 
Susan saw her mother and the old gentleman come out from 
the drawing-room and walk down the hall in friendly 
fashion. A moment later Mrs. Carter called Susan, and the 
culprit went draggingly down the stairs, bracing herself for 
woe to come. She found a mother with a very loving 
face, who gathered her small sinner tenderly into her arms 
and kissed her. "Tell mother about your plans next time, 
dearie," she said — but that was all. Not even a word of 
reproof, and, remembering lesser offences, Susan marveled. 
She did not know that a justice of the Supreme Court of 
the United States had pleaded her cause with all the elo- 
quence he could muster and had won her case. 

Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



Material for Interpretation 225 

MR. BUSH'S KINDERGARTEN CHRISTMAS 

"She hailed from around Boston somewheres, and she 
came out here and started one of these 'ere kindling- 
garters," said Mr. Milo Bush. "Roped in all the small 
children in town and begun to learn 'em to string straws, 
and map out beans, and wad wet clay and such other 
practical things which would be useful to 'em when they 
growed up. Showed 'em that they had thumbkins, and 
told 'em 'bout Jack Frost, and Old Man East Wind, and 
Uncle Feeble; and had 'em singing 'Hoppery, skippery, 
hop, flop, pop — summer 's the time to whop, whop, whop !' 

"Well, it seemed to be a good thing, though I don't reckon 
our folks would 'a' took much stock in it if it had n't 1 been 
for the girl herself. That there girl was the prettiest girl 
that ever struck the country. Such eyes as she had ! And 
that mouth of hers ! — well, I b'lieve if it could 'a' been done, 
that every man in tow r n would 'a' had himself reduced to 
eighteen inches high and gone to school to her, and strung 
his straw, and wadded his gob of cla}^ with thumbkins. 

"She was the most enthusiastic girl — and the prettiest! 
She just kept us parents on the jump. Doing what, do you 
think? Living for onr children! That was all, but it kept 
us busy. She used to call parents' meetings, and make 
little speeches, 'Come, let us live for our children,' she 
would say. So that 's wot we done — just lived for 'em. 
Rekerations of the past was abandoned, such as hoss-trots. 
Old Major Sudley killed his game-cock, and had him for 
Sunday dinner, though the Major said afterwards that the 
next old fighting rooster he et he would do it on a week- 
day, as the remarks necessary in carving the j'ints wa'n't 
no fit language for the Sabbath. 



226 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"Well, as I said, the girl was b'iling with enthusiasm. 
Every week she took the young uns on a picnic, or round to 
see a blacksmith, or a carpenter, or a cobbler, or somewheres. 
'Ticky, tick, tack; tocky, whock, whoo — this is the way to 
half -sole a shoe!' Then when winter got here and Jack 
Frost come creeping, come creeping, there was new go- 
ings-on. Finally Christmas hove in sight, and the girl got 
more excited than ever. Called another mothers' meeting, 
and we fathers was on hand. The girl made another speech. 
Christmas was coming. Did n 't we know the little song 
about Christmas? And wot it said about Sandy Glaus? 
Though Sandy Claus was a miff, wot a bootiful miff! It 
was well that the little ones should believe in such miffs as 
long as they could ! Alars ! the stern realities of life would 
confront 'em but too soon! Let us make the Christmas 
of the little ones of the kindling-garter a glad one. Did we 
not want to live for our children ? The song told specially 
of Sandy Claus 's reindeers, and the children were much 
interested in the reindeers. Wot fond parent would volun- 
teer to show the children a team of reindeers ? 

"I sprung to my feet while the other parents was lean- 
ing for'ard to rise, and say I: 'Miss, if we can find a pair 
of reindeers in Bon Pierre County, or even one reindeer, 
or half a reindeer, or a critter that looks like a reindeer, 
I '11 drive him for the children.' 'Thank you,' says the 
girl, smiling at me; and if she 'd 'a' asked me to drive two 
lions tandem, with a hyener under the seat, I 'd 'a' done it. 
'And you are on the right track, Mr. Bush,' she goes on; 
'there are, of course, no reindeers here. We must stimulate 
some reindeers, Mr. Bush.' 'Wot,' says I, thumbkin be- 
hind my ear, letting on I hadn't heard. 'We must stimu- 
late some reindeers — counterfeit 'em, you know. Get some 



Material for Interpretation 227 

other likely critters and fasten some horns on 'em, and make 
'em look like reindeers.' Well, we all talked the matter 
over, and decided that the best we could do was to take a 
couple of mooley steers belonging to Zeb Woodbeck, and 
tie some horns on 'em, hitch 'em to a light sleigh, and let 
'em sizzle, with me a-holding the reins, and mebby calling 
cheerily: 'On, Prancer! Whoa, Dancer!' 

"Well, there ain't much more to tell. I done it. 'Bout 
four o'clock in the afternoon so 's the little ones could go 
home and get to bed early. The plan was to have the chil- 
dren in front of the school-house, and I was to dash around 
the corner and swing round the house a couple or three 
time, and then leave the sleigh and crawl through a hole 
in the back of the building, and pop out behind the stove as 
the children come in the door, all frosty, and with flowing 
whiskers, and wearing pillers under my clothes, and with 
my nose red. It took a pile of fixing up, and when they 
got through with me my nose was the only thing which I 
could recognize as my own. 

"Then I got in the sleigh down by the livery -barn, and 
drove up around, the steers trotting off pretty free, and the 
bells on 'em ringing lively. Then I swung 'em round the 
corner, and says I: 'On, Prancer! On, Dancer!' and the 
children clapped their hands, and the others begun to yell, 
and somehow it excited them critters, and they hopped up 
into the air, and yanked round their heads, and their horns 
fetched loose and tipped back and took 'em on the shoulders, 
and Dancer let out an awful 'B-a-a-a-r ! ' and Prancer kicked 
sideways at a dog, and they lit out down the main street like 
a bloo streak, me a-sawing on the reins and a-yelling 'The 
Night Before Christmas' at 'em in chunks. As we tore 
through town, both reindeers b-a-a-a-r-ing and kicking, the 



228 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

bells a-ringing, every dog in town close behind making use 
of their own language, and my own voice not idle, we was 
said to 'a ' presented a impressive spectacle. 

"We tore on. After passing over six miles of prehayrie 
in a few minutes, I was throwed out by the sleigh striking 
a rock. Them simulated reindeers went on. My knee was 
fractured, and I started to crawl back the six miles, singing 
cheerily, ' Clap, clap with glee ; for Christmas is coming 
and merry are we!' My whiskers impeded my crawl a 
good deal by getting under my knees, but I reached the 
house of a settler about dark. 

" 'Didn't you go by here a spell ago as if you was in 
a kind of a hurry ? ' says he. 

" 'No/ says I; 'that was Sandy Claus.' 

" 'It looked like you/ says he. 

" 'We are one and the same/ says I; 'e pluribus unum. 
I was stimulating Sandy Claus. Bring in some snow and 
thaw out my left earkin/ 

' ' ' See yere, old man, ' says he ; ' before I stir a step tell 
me wot in all creation you are making such a Tom-twisted 
fool of yourself for. ' 

" 'I am living for a Boston kindling-garter teacher; 
fetch in that snow!' " 

Hayden Carruth. 



THE SPIRIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

(Many attempts have been made to frame "the perfect tribute" to 
Abraham Lincoln. Woodrow Wilson pictures him as the mysteri- 
ous but reassuring product of democracy. The spiritual quality of 
his portrait no less than the art displayed in the use of less than 



Material for Interpretation 229 

fifteen hundred words to paint it make it memorable. By popular 
subscription the log-cabin birthplare of Lincoln on a farm near 
Hodgenville, Kentucky, has been enclosed in an imposing granite 
memorial building as a gift to the Nation. President Wilson, 
called upon to accept the memorial, September 4, gave this impres- 
sive interpretation of it.) 

No more significant memorial could have been presented 
to the Nation than this. It expresses so much of what is 
singular and noteworthy in the history of the country; it 
suggests so many of the things that we prize most highly in 
our lives and in our system of government. 

How eloquent this little house within this shrine is of the 
vigor of democracy ! Nature pays no tribute to aristocracy, 
subscribes to no creed or caste, renders fealty to no monarch 
or master of any name or kind. 

Genius is no snob. It does not run after titles or seek by 
preference the high cjrcles of society. It affects humble 
company as well as great. It pays no special tribute to 
universities or learned societies or conventional standards 
of greatness, but serenely chooses its own comrades, its own 
haunts, its own cradle even, and its own life of adventure 
and of training. 

This was the cradle of one of the great sons of men, a man 
of singular, delightful, vital genius who presently emerged 
upon the great stage of the Nation's history, gaunt, shy, 
ungainly, but dominant and majestic, a natural ruler of 
men, himself inevitably the central figure of the great 
plot. 

Whatever the vigor and vitality of the stock from which 
he sprang, its mere vigor and soundness do not explain 
where this man got his great heart that seemed to compre- 
hend all mankind in its catholic and benignant sympathy, 
the mind that sat enthroned behind those brooding, melan- 



230 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

choly eyes, whose vision swept many a horizon which those 
about him dreamed not of — that mind that comprehended 
what it had never seen, and understood the language of 
affairs with the ready ease of one to the manner born — or 
that nature which seemed in its varied richness to be the 
familiar of men of every way of life. 

Many another man beside Lincoln has served the Nation 
in its highest places of council and of action whose origins 
were as humble as his. Tho the greatest example of the 
universal energy, richness, stimulation, and force of de- 
mocracy, he is only one example among many. The per- 
meating and all-pervasive virtue of the freedom which chal- 
lenges us in America to make the most of every gift and 
power he possesses, every page of our history serves to 
emjjhasize and illustrate. Standing here in this place, it 
seems almost the whole of the stirring story. 

Do you share with me the feeling, I wonder, that he was 
permanently at home nowhere ? It seems to me that in the 
case of a man — I would rather say of a spirit — like Lincoln 
the question where he was is of little significance ; that it is 
always what he was that really arrests our thought and takes 
hold of our imagination. 

It is the spirit always that is sovereign. Lincoln, like 
the rest of us, was put through the discipline of the world — 
a very rough and exacting discipline for him, an indispensa- 
ble discipline for every man who would know what he is 
about in the midst of the world's affairs; but this spirit 
got only its schooling there. It did not derive its character 
or its vision from the experiences which brought it to its 
full revelation. 

The test of every American must always be, not where he 
is, but what he is. That also is of the essence of democracy, 



Material for Interpretation 



231 



and is the moral of which this place is most gravely ex- 
pressive. 

I have read many biographies of Lincoln ; I have sought 
out with the greatest interest the many intimate stories that 
are told of him, the narratives of nearby friends, the 
sketches *&t close quarter in which those who had the privi- 
lege of being associated with him have tried to depict for us 
the very man himself "in his habit as he lived," but T have 
nowhere found a real intimate of Lincoln's. I nowhere get 
the impression in any narrative or reminiscence that the 
writer had in fact penetrated to the heart of his mystery, 
or that any man could penetrate to the heart of it. 

That brooding spirit has no real familiars. I get the 
impression that it never spoke out in complete self-revela- 
tion, and that it could not reveal itself completely to anyone. 
It was a very lonely spirit that looked out from underneath 
those shaggy brows and comprehended men without fully 
communing with them, as if, in spite of all its genial efforts 
at comradeship, it dwelt apart, saw its visions of duty where 
no man looked on. 

I have come here to-day not to utter a eulogy on Lincoln ; 
he stands in need of none, but to endeavor to interpret the 
meaning of this gift to the Nation of the place of his birth 
and origin. 

Is not this an altar upon which we may forever keep 
alive the vestal fire of democracy as upon a shrine at which 
some of the deepest and most sacred hopes of mankind may 
from age to age be rekindled? For these hopes must cer- 
tainly be rekindled, and only those who live can rekindle 
them. 

The only stuff that can retain the life-giving heat is the 
stuff of living hearts. We are not worthy to stand here 
unless we ourselves be in deed and in truth real democrats 



232 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

and servants of mankind, ready to give our very lives for 
the freedom and justice and spiritual exaltation of the great 
nation which shelters and nurtures us. 

Woodrow Wilson. 
Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



THE KING OF BOYVILLE 1 

Boys who are born in a small town are born free and 
equal. In the big city it may be different ; there are doubt- 
less good little boys who disdain bad little boys, and poor 
little boys who are never to be noticed under any circum- 
stances. But in a small town, every boy, good or bad, rich 
or poor, stands among boys on his own merits, and is 
measured by what he can do, and not by what his father 
is. And so, Winfield Hancock Pennington, whose boy name 
was Piggy Pennington, was the King of Boyville. For 
Piggy could walk on his hands, curling one foot gracefully 
over his back, and pointing the other straight in the air ; lie 
could hang by his heels on a flying trapeze ; he could chin 
a pole so many times that no one could count the number ; 
he could turn a somersault in the air from the level ground, 
both backwards and forwards ; no one could come near him 
in the water or on the ice, and no one could beat him at a 
game of marbles. In the story books such a boy would be 
the son of a widowed mother, and turn out very good or 
very bad, but Piggy was not a story book boy, and his father 
kept a grocery store, from which Piggy used to steal so 

i Reprinted, by permission of the publishers, from "The Court of 
Boyville" by Wm. Allen White. Copyright by the Macmillan Co. 



Material for Interpretation 233 

many dates that the boys said his father must have cut up 
the almanac to supply him. As he never gave the goodies 
to the other boys, but kept them for his own use, his name 
of "Piggy" was his by all the rights of Boyville. 

But there was one thing Piggy Pennington could not do 
and it was the one of all things which he most wished he 
could do; he could not under any circumstances say three 
consecutive and coherent words to any girl under fifteen 
and over nine. He was invited with nearly all of the boys 
of his age in town, to children's parties. And while any 
other boy, whose only accomplishment was turning a cart- 
wheel, or skinning the cat backwards," or, at most, hanging 
by one leg and turning a handspring, could boldly ask a 
girl if he could see her home, Piggy had to get his hat and 
sneak out of the house when the company broke up. Even 
after school, Piggy could not join the select coterie of boys 
who followed the girls down through town to the postoffice, 
nor could he tease the girls about absent boys at such times 
and make up rhymes like 

"First the cat and then her tail; 
Jimmy Sears and Maggie Hale/' 

and shout them out for the crowd to hear. Instead Piggy 
Pennington went off with the boys who really didn't care 
for such things, and fought or wrestled his way leisurely 
home in time to get in his " night wood." But his heart 
was not in these pastimes; it was with a red shawl of a 
peculiar shade, that was wending its way to the postoffice 
and back to a home in one of the few two-story houses in 
the little town. Time and again had Piggy tried to make 
some sign to let his feelings be known, but every time he 



234 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

had failed. Lying in wait for her at corners, and suddenly 
breaking upon her with a glory of backward and forward 
somersaults did not convey the state of his heart. Hanging 
by his heels from an apple tree limb over the sidewalk in 
front of her, unexpectedly, did not tell the tender tale for 
which his lips could find no words. And the nearest he 
could come to an expression of the longing in his breast 
was to cut her initials in the ice beside his own when she 
came weaving and wobbling past on some other boy's arm. 
But she would not look at the initials, and the chirography 
of his skates was so indistinct that it required a key; and 
everything put together, poor Piggy was no nearer a decla- 
ration at the end of the winter than he had been at the be- 
ginning of autumn. So only one Heart beat with but a 
single thought, and the other took motto candy and valen- 
tines and red apples and picture cards and other tokens of 
esteem from other boys, and beat on with any number of 
thoughts. 

One morning in the late spring, he spent half an hour 
before breakfast among his mother's roses, which were just 
in first bloom. He had taken out there all the wire from 
an old broom, and all his kite string. His mother had to 
call three times before he would leave his work. He was 
the first to leave the table, and by eight o'clock he was at 
his task again. Before the first school bell had rung, Piggy 
Pennington was bound for the schoblhouse, with a strange- 
looking parcel under his arm. 

Just before school was called, Piggy Pennington was play- 
ing "scrub" with all his might, and a little girl — his Heart's 
Desire — was taking out of her desk a wreath of roses, tied 
to a shaky wire frame. There was a crowd of girls around 
her admiring it, and speculating about the possible author 
of the gift ; but to these she did not show the patent medi- 



Material for Interpretation 235 

cine card, on which was scrawled, over the druggist's ad- 
vertisement : 



"Yours truly, W. H. P." 

Piggy was the last boy in, and he did not look toward the 
desk, where he had put the flowers until after the singing. 

Then he stole a sidewise glance that way, but his Heart 's 
Desire was deep in her geography. Once she squirmed in 
her place and looked toward him, but Piggy Pennington 
was head over heels in the "Iser rolling rapidly.' ' When 
their eyes did at last meet, just as Piggy was at the door 
to go out for recess, the thrill amounted to a shock that sent 
him whirling in a pinwheel of handsprings toward the ball 
ground, shouting "Scrub — first bat, first bat, first bat!" 
Piggy made four tallies that recess, and the other boys 
could n't have put him out, if they had used a hand-grenade 
or a Babcock fire extinguisher. 

He received four distinct shots that day from the eyes 
of his Heart's Desire, and the last one sent him home on 
the run, tripping up every primary urchin, and whooping 
at the top of his voice. But, alas, the course of true love 
never did run smooth, and the next day was a dark one. 
Piggy brought a big armful of red and yellow and pink and 
white roses to school, but though all the other girls crowded 
around him pleading for one, Heart's Desire never ap- 
proached. Instead, she stood near a window, talking to a 
freckle-faced boy, until the last rose, a beauty, had been 
given away. Oh, that was a dark day. 

It was almost four o'clock when Piggy Pennington 
walked to the master's desk to get him to work out a 
problem, and as he passed the desk of Heart's Desire he 
dropped a note in her lap. It read : 



236 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"Are you mad?" 

But he dared not look for the answer, as they marched out 
that night, so he contented himself with punching the boy 
ahead of him with a pin, and stepping on his heels, when 
they were in the back part of the room, where the teacher 
would not see him. The King of Boyville walked home 
alone that evening. The courtiers saw plainly that his 
majesty was troubled. 

At dusk, when the evening chores were done, Piggy Pen- 
nington walked past the home of his Heart's Desire and 
howled out a doleful ballad which began : 

"You ask what makes this darkey wee-eep, 
Why he like others am not gay." 

But a man on the sidewalk passing said, "Well, son, that 's 
pretty good, but wouldn't you just as lief sing as to make 
that noise." So the King went to bed with a heavy 
heart. 

He took that heart to school with him, the next morning, 
and dragged it over the school ground, playing crack the 
whip and "stink-base." But when he saw Heart's Desire 
wearing in her hair one of the white roses from his mother's 
garden — the Penningtons had the only white roses in the 
little town — he knew it was from the wreath which he had 
given her, and so light was his boyish heart that it was with 
an effort that he kept it out of his throat. There were 
smiles and smiles that day. During the singing they began, 
and every time she came past him from a class, and every 
time he could pry his eyes behind her geography, or her 
grammar, a flood of gladness swept over his soul. That 
night Piggy Pennington followed the girls from the school- 
house to the postofifice and in a burst of enthusiasm, he 



Material for Interpretation 237 

walked on his hands in front of the crowd, for nearly half a 
block. When his Heart's Desire said: 

"Oh, ain't you afraid you '11 hurt yourself doing- that?" 
Piggy pretended not to hear her, and said to the boys : 

"Aw, that ain't nothin'; come down to my barn, an' 
I '11 do somepin that '11 make yer head swim." 

He was too exuberant to contain himself, and when he 
left the girls he started to run after a stray chicken that 
happened along, and ran till he was out of breath. He did 
not mean to run in the direction his Heart's Desire had 
taken, but he turned a corner, and came up with her sud- 
denly. 

Her eyes beamed upon him, and he could not run away, 
as he wished. She made room for him on the sidewalk, 
and he could do nothing but walk beside her. For a block 
they were so embarrassed that neither spoke. 

It was Piggy who broke the silence. His words came 
from his heart. He had not yet learned to speak other- 
wise. 

"Where 's your rose?" he asked, not seeing it. 

"What rose?" said the girl, as though she had never in 
her short life heard of such an absurd thing as a rose. 

"Oh, you know." There was another pause, during 
which Piggy picked up a pebble, and threw it at a bird in 
a tree. His heart w r as sinking rapidly. 

"Oh, that rose?" said his Heart's Desire, turning full 
upon him with the enchantment of her childish eyes. 
"Why, here it is in my grammar. I 'm taking it to keep 
with the others. Why?" 

"Oh, nuthin' much, I bet you can't do this," he added, 
as he glowed up into her eyes from an impulsive hand- 
spring. 

And thus the King of Boyville first set his light, little 



238 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

foot upon the soil of an unknown country, a country old, yet 
ever new. 

William Allen White. 
Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



THE PRINCESS PORCELAIN 

He had always been interested in the frail little thing. 
They were in the same row — the outer one — of the same oval 
bed that was crowded with fellow-Pansies, and he was quick 
to notice that by the gardener's carelessness the space be- 
tween himself and his lefthand neighbor was wider than it 
should have been, a fact that annoyed him even then, and 
later became a source of real distress in his otherwise quiet 
life. 

This little left-hand neighbor seemed to attract by her 
very weakness and slowness of growth. He, himself, came 
of a Dutch strain and showed it in his sturdy growth of 
stem and the body and velvet of his blossom. King of the 
Blacks he was called, and really he deserved his name, 
though one intensely " dark purple fellow " who had been 
called " Black" the summer before, remarked, somewhat 
maliciously, that "the title of the King of the Blacks could 
never pay him for going thru life with a pinhead orange 
dot for an eye." 

The King used sometimes to fear the little maid at his 
side would never reach maturity. If the sun were very 
strong, she shrank beneath the heat. If the rain fell, she 
would sometimes lie prostrate, and those were the times 
when the distance between them distressed him, for, as he 
often told her, he could and would have supported her, and 
at least partly sheltered her with his broader leaves, but as 

V 



Material for Interpretation 239 

it was he could only help her with his advice. And when 
she at last formed her flower buds and a shower was im- 
minent he would warn her to turn those delicate buds down- 
ward that the water might run off and so save the tenderly 
folded petals within from watery ruin. 

Up to that time his feeling for her had been simply the 
tender affection one is apt to feel for the creature we help or 
protect, and he had often looked back with a bold, admiring 
orange eye at the smiling little mottled, banded Pansies, 
who had not hesitated one moment to nod at him, — for they 
are a generally coquettish tribe. 

But one warm, still May morning all this was changed for 
the King of the Blacks, for there stood his slow-growing, 
frail neighbor holding up to his startled gaze the sweetest, 
tenderest, truest little face in all Panseydom. She was not 
brilliant nor velvet-blotched, nor yet banded, just a lovely 
porcelain blue of a perfectly even tint without markings of 
any kind, the pure color deepening into a violet eye with 
that speck of gold in the centre which, in a Pansy, answers 
to the pupil of a human eye. 

Looking upon this innocent beauty the King of the Blacks 
was suddenly shaken by a great passion of love and long- 
ing. He realized in that moment that she held all the 
sweetness of life for him. For one moment he enjoyed the 
unalloyed bliss of his discovery ; the next, alas ! brought to 
his knowledge some of the tortures that invariably accom- 
pany true love. Was he, then, jealous? Of course! Who 
could see that small, fierce, orange eye of his and doubt his 
jealousy — and goodness knows he had cause enough, but 
thru no fault of little Porcelain Blue's, mind yo\\\ She 
adored him: was aquiver with love from the edge of her 
topmost petal to the tips of her threadlike roots. 



240 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

But think of the maddening space between them! Do 
what they would they could not bridge it over. They looked 
and longed, and longed and looked, but only their sighs 
sweetly mingled. They knew neither embrace nor kiss. 

The King of the Blacks was a sturdy fellow, and jealousy 
and disappointment made his temper prickly, and some- 
times he wished many things of an unpleasant nature upon 
the gardener, whose carelessness had caused so much suffer- 
ing. Often he cried out for a pest of mealy-bugs, or slugs, 
or snails to come upon his garden. Once he went so far 
as to wish moles to follow his footsteps beneath the lawn, 
but seeing how he had frightened Porcelain Blue he took 
that back, like the Dutch gentleman he really was. 

But it was hard to see all the winged marauders buzzing 
around his gentle little sweetheart, offering her the tattered 
compliments they had offered to each floral feminine they 
had met that day. To see a great ^bumble-bee" go blun- 
dering so heavily against her as to nearly knock her down ! 
But, oh! worst of all, to see that Butterfly — that royally 
striped, banded, powdered, idiotic flirt masculine — to see 
him impudently clinging to shy little Porcelain Blue's 
shoulder, while he stole the precious nectar from the sweet 
flower lips that cried vainly for the King to drive him 
away. 

No wonder he grew ill-tempered. He was so helpless. 
All he could do was to urge Porcelain Blue to call up her 
power of growing, and then to direct that growth toward 
him, while he cheered her up by calling her attention to the 
long arm he was forcing forward as rapidly as possible to- 
ward her, knowing well that the lady mistress of them all 
would much prefer his black, velvety blossoms to such a 
growth of leaf and stem. 



Material for Interpretation 241 

Then, too, the King of the Blacks had much to endure 
from those about him. He had never concealed either his 
love or his distress, and there was much merriment at his 
expense among the flowers of his own bed and the insects 
that daily visited them. 

One perfect morning, when all the world seemed made for 
love, the King of the Blacks felt his heart was breaking, 
little Porcelain Blue dropped and hung her head so sadly, 
while all the others were fairly asw T ay with laughter. Just 
then, warm and sweet and strong, the West Wind came 
blowing. The romping, teasing, rowdy West Wind ! Many 
a time had he chucked the little one under her chin and set 
her petals into a wild, blue flutter, and now he paused a 
moment, disturbed at this sadness. Sadness in the path of 
the West Wind? Oh, no! he could not tolerate that. So 
back he drew a pace, gathered himself together, and then 
made a laughing rush upon the lovers, flinging with tender 
force young Porcelain Blue full upon the eager and cling- 
ing arms of the King of the Blacks. Then bumping their 
pretty faces together, he, rustling, fluttering, and waving, 
went on his merry way, leaving them to learn in peace the 
sweetness of the flower kiss. Porcelain Blue was so en- 
tangled in the strong arms of the King that she remained 
there, and if he found his Heaven in her sweet face she 
found hers in his gentle strength. And so happily they 
lived their little space and knew nothing but joy. 



One early summer day the following year the mistress 
stood looking down with puzzled eyes upon a stranger in 
her great bed of saucy, wide-eyed beauties, in all their 
satiny, velvety gorgeousness. She knew them all by name. 
They were " Kings This," and "Queens That," and "War- 



242 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

rior So-and-So," and "French-Stained/' and "German 
Blotched, " and "Somebody's Royal Collection. ' ' But 
where did this stranger come from, here in the outer row 
of the big oval bed ? 

Down on his knees the gardener expatiated on the per- 
fection of form and the firmness of texture to be found in 
this beautiful nameless blossom that was upheld so firmly 
by its sturdy stem. 

"Pure porcelain blue, with markings that give it an al- 
most human smile ! ' ' murmured the lady. i ' The markings 
of blackest velvet, and that great red-orange eye ! Where 
have I seen that peculiar eye, and where that pure even tint 
of blue? Why — !" and at the same moment the gardener 
struck his earth-stained hands together, exclaiming, "The 
King of the Blacks, ma'am!" 

While his mistress cried, "Porcelain Blue!" and the 
gardener finished, "Hit 's the offspring of them two plants, 
ma'am, has sure has you are halive, and she 'as no name, 
poor thing." 

"Oh, yes, she has," smiled his mistress. She is of Royal 
parentage and beautiful, and she is called The Princess 
Porcelain. And to herself she whispered, "Ah, love never 
dies! That is amply proved by the existence here of 
Princess Porcelain. ' ' 

Clara Morris. 



THE PERFECT ONE 

Many ages ago there lived in Persia a certain teacher and 
philosopher named Sabbah who seemed as a shining light 
to all who looked on him. His courtesy and dignity, his 
wisdom and humility, his imperturbability of temper, and 



Material for Interpretation 243 

his charity to all, won for him many followers ; and among 
these there grew toward him so great a devotion that they 
could see in him nothing amiss. This, they said, was the 
perfect man whom all the world had been looking for. 
And because they found no flaw in his character and per- 
ceived no limitation in his wisdom, so far as things human 
were concerned, they called him "the perfect one," and 
fixing upon him the blind eye of imitation, but shutting 
upon him the eye of understanding, they sat daily at his 
feet and hearkened to his sayings ; they spoke as he spoke 
and did as he did, hoping thereby to come in time to a 
like perfection. 

So when, in the contemplation of deep things, the perfect 
one combed his beard with his fingers, they (such as had 
them) combed theirs, and those who had not, made combings 
in the air where presently their beards would be. And 
when he ate they ate, and when he fasted they fasted, and 
when he spat they spat, so as to be at one with him in all 
things appertaining to conduct. And they were happy in 
these things, and thought by discipline to come presently 
to the perfection wherein he seemed perfect. 

So when, his hours of teaching being over (for he sat 
daily in the mosque and taught all that would hear him), 
he rose to return to his own house, those that doted on his 
example would rise and follow him ; and where he trod they 
trod, and if he stayed to look on a piece of merchandise, or to 
handle a fabric and ask the price of it, they also would stay 
and look and handle and inquire. And because of these 
things they were a nuisance to the merchants, and the pro- 
cession of the perfect one was imperfectly welcomed in the 
bazaars of that city. So presently the merchants would 
request the perfect one to go by other ways if he wished not 
to buy, but to go their way when buying was his intention ; 



244 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

for when he bought then those that followed him bought 
also. 

Now, every day when the perfect one reached his house 
thus accompanied and attended, he went in and shut the 
door, and they saw no more of him ; and going sadly to their 
own homes, they wondered and questioned among them- 
selves what he did when the door was shut, so that they 
also might do likewise, and by that much be nearer to 
perfection. 

And this grew to be so great a debate among them that at 
last one, greatly daring, making himself spokesman for the 
rest, said: 

1 ' Perfect One, when you go into your house and shut 
your door, so' that we see no more of you, what is it that 
you do then ? Let us know, that we also may do it and be 
perfect, as you are." 

And the perfect one answered : 

"I do many things. If I told you them all, you would 
not remember. " 

"Yet you may tell us the first thing," said he who spoke 
for the rest. 

' ' The first thing ? ' ' said Sabbah ; and musingly he combed 
his beard with his fingers, while all the rest did likewise. 
1 ' The first thing that I do is to stand on my head and stick 
out my tongue and twiddle my toes, for I find great joy 
in it." 

So that day when all his followers had parted from him 
and returned each to their own houses, they stood on their 
heads and stuck out their tongues and twiddled their toes, 
and found great joy in it. 

"Now we be growing perfect," said they. 

But the next day one of his followers said to him : 

"0 Perfect One, why do you do this thing? For though 



Material for Interpretation 24<5 

we find joy in it, we know not the celestial reason or the 
correspondency which makes it seem good. " 

And Sabbah answered: 

"I will tell you first what I do, and I will tell you the 
reasons afterward." 

So they said to him : 

"0 Perfect One, what is the next thing that you do?" 

And Sabbah said : 

"The next thing that I do? I tell my wife to beat me 
till I cry out for mercy." 

So when his followers returned to their houses that day 
and had finished their first exercise in perfection, they told 
their wives to beat them till they cried out for mercy. 
And their wives did so. 

The next day, a little crestfallen and sad, his followers 
came back to him, and one of them said : 

"0 Perfect One, after your wife has begun beating you, 
when do you cry out for mercy? There is a difference of 
opinion among us, and truly it matters. ' ' 

Sabbah answered : 

"I do not cry out for mercy." 

At this answer they all looked much astonished and very 
sorry for themselves, and one who had come that day look- 
ing more crestfallen than the rest said : 

"But I, Perfect One, have ten wives!" 

Sabbah smiled on him. 

"I have none," said Sabbah. 

His followers sat and looked at him for awhile in silence, 
then said one : 

' * Perfect One, why have you done this ? ' ' 

And the perfect one answered: 

"When I go into my house and shut my door, then it is 
for the relief of being alone and quit of the mockery where- 



246 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

with you mock me, pretending that I am perfect. It is for 
that, and to realize the more fully my own imperfection, 
that I stand on my head and twiddle my toes and stick out 
my tongue. Then I know that I am a fool. And that is 
the celestial reason and the correspondency which make me 
find joy in it. 

"Then it is, because I know I am a fool, that I tell my 
wife to beat me until I cry out for mercy. And truly— and 
this shall be my last answer — the reason that I have no 
wife is because I am a wise man." 

Then the perfect one arose from his place and went 
home, according to his custom; nor did any of his fol- 
lowers that time bear him company. But they gazed after 
him with the open eye of understanding, and, plucking 
out the blind eye of imitation, cast it from them, and went 
home full of thought how best to solve the domestic prob- 
lem which there awaited them. 

"Now I am at peace,' ' said the perfect one, shutting his 
door. 

Laurence Housman. 

THE BATTLE OF PANKOW 



"Your Royal Highness," said General von Kampf in a 
loud, monotonous voice, as if addressing a large and dis- 
tant body of soldiery: "Your Royal Highness, the dis- 
position of your troops is most unwise and improper. Your 
left flank is entirely unprotected — is in the air, and unless 
your opponent be devoid of all military sense, he will at- 
tack immediately and your army will be decimated." 

General von Kampf — bald, wrinkled, bristly, rigid— fixed 
his royal highness, the crown prince, with a cold blue eye. 



Material for Interpretation 247 

and bowed stiffly with much creaking of joints, belts, and 
buckles. 

Y ' Decimated ! ' ' ' breathed the crown prince, timidly, 
looking no higher than the toes of the general's martial 
boots. " ' Decimated V What does 'decimated' mean, if 
you please, your excellency?" 

"To decimate is to put out of action ten percent of your 
enemy's effectives. Such is its proper meaning; a good offi- 
cer knows no other. Had you been attentive to my teach- 
ings, you would have rested your left wing on this river. 
Then you would have been safe. As it is, you are utterly 
and irretrievably lost ! ' ' 

Lost! The crown prince cast one appealing glance at 
General von Kampf, the chief of his household, but saw 
nothing on the harsh face of that dignitary save a frown 
of disapproval. He was terrified. The word "Lost!" 
"Lost!" kept ringing mournfully in his ears. He strove 
to be brave. He sat very still and very erect in his chair, 
made higher by a tremendous book. He clenched his little 
hands together tightly and gazed straight in front of him, 
trying with all his might to look somewhere, anywhere, 
rather than at a certain picture hanging on the wall. But 
it was of no use. His glance wavered, strayed nearer and 
nearer to the picture, until finally a lump rose in his throat 
and tears filled his eyes. And that he might hide this last 
weakness from her who looked down at him with proud, 
cold face from out of the huge gilt frame, he cast his arms 
despairingly upon the table beside which he sat, and hid 
his twitching face in them. And that she might not hear, 
he choked back his sobs with all his remaining strength. 

By this impetuous movement on the part of the crown 
prince, the royal forces covering the table were thrown 
into the utmost confusion and disarray, from which they, 



248 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

being quite as stiff and lacking in mobility as General von 
Kampf himself, were wholly unable to recover. The un- 
fortunate left wing — horse, foot and dragoons — already 
fore-doomed to disaster, was entirely swept off its feet, and 
perished miserably beneath the torrential overflow of the 
impassable river, represented in the foregoing maneuvers 
by a mammoth celery dish filled with water. 

u Be a man, Your Highness! He who would be a king 
and would control others, must first learn to control him- 
self. Be a man ! ' ' 

"I don't want to be a king. And I can't be a man just 
yet, for I 'm only a little boy ; and — and — your excellency, I 
want my mother. ' ' 

"Preposterous! Her Majesty left the capitol yesterday. 
By this time she is at the end of the kingdom. ' ' 

The end of the kingdom! Which end? wondered the 
crown prince, for he knew there must be two ends, since 
his father seemed always to be at one and his mother at the 
other. 

Over this and many other serious problems his royal 
highness pondered deeply, especially at night, when mili- 
tary discipline was somewhat relaxed and he was at peace. 
And, based upon his speculations, he framed quite a formid- 
able list of questions to be submitted to the chief of his 
household so soon as he should catch that grim warrior 
in just the proper humor. But before the list was half 
complete, his attention invariably wandered, and he 
watched with frightened eyes the night-light flickering on 
the hearth and the shadows dancing on the wall, until he 
fell asleep. 

In the hurry and bustle of the busy day, with its drills 
and warlike exercises and its endless procession of spec- 
tacled professors, the crown prince could not recall a tithe 



Material for Interpretation 249 

of the questions formulated so carefully the night before. 
Or if he did, he could never screw up courage to ask 
them. 

In the late afternoons, during his "play hour" as the 
general called it, matters were even worse. Whenever the 
latter said, "Today, Your Highness, let us repeat the war- 
game of Pankow, in w 7 hich famous battle, you will remem- 
ber, I had the honor of being of some trifling service to 
your illustrious grandsire," the crown prince, hopelessly 
wearied and confused by all that had gone before, could 
remember nothing, not even the simplest principle of 
strategy or rules of tactics. In consequence, he drew down 
death and destruction upon his unfortunate troops, and 
upon his ow r n bewildered and terrified little head the fierce 
criticisms of the hero of that ever memorable day. 

Once, however, by a happy chance, all went well. The 
imperiled left w T ing found itself in some wholly unex- 
pected manner safely marshaled upon the very bank of the 
impassable river, and the enemy, completely out-maneu- 
vered, suffered an even more terrible defeat at the hands of 
the grandson than had in reality been inflicted by the 
grandfather. 

The effect upon General von Kampf was simply aston- 
ishing. His spurred heels cracked together ; his right hand, 
like a piece of rusty and complicated mechanism, came to 
the salute; and upon his face, after a good many abortive 
efforts, appeared an entirely new set of wrinkles, suggest- 
ing in some remote and phantasmal way the existence of a 
smile. 

His royal highness was too astounded to speak, but 
quickly divining that no opportunity better suited to his 
purpose could ever be found, he rapidly reviewed in his 
mind, so far as he was able, the problems calling most ur- 



250 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

gently for solution. Among other things he desired to 
know if the general slept in his uniform with all his orders 
pinned on his breast. Again, he wished the general to 
let him look at his back, of which he never remembered 
having had a satisfactory view, and to inquire if his ex- 
cellency found it as easy to walk backward as forward, a 
mode of locomotion that he, the crown prince, had tried 
privily with but poor success. More important still, he 
longed to ask why his father did not give him a pile of 
sand in which to play. But upon consideration he aban- 
doned all these questions in favor of one that harassed him 
mightily. 

4 'Why — why — " he looked up, saw that the general was 
regarding him attentively, flushed hotly, hesitated, and 
stopped. "Why — why — " but his voice failed him. He 
could not go on. First, there was the general, of whom he 
was still mortally afraid. And then, now that the time 
to speak had come, came with it a knowledge of his own 
incompetency to put into words a single one — even the 
simplest — of the manifold riddles that together formed the 
one big riddle he so ardently desired to have solved for 
him. 

Wearily, hopelessly, the crown prince closed his eyes 
and sank low in his chair, leaning his head against the 
great carved back that rose high above him. And thus he 
sat, thinking, while the mellow glow of sunset filled every 
nook and corner of the lofty chamber with warmth and 
light, flaming and pouring over the polished floor a flood 
of molten gold. On each side of the towering chimney- 
piece, in the full radiance of the dying day, hung a picture, 
a full-length portrait the size of life, surrounded by a 
massive frame — the young king and younger queen, each 
in royal robes, each crowned, and as if this were not 



Material for Interpretation 251 

enough, surmounting each frame was yet another crown, 
huge in size and heavily gilded. 

Under the portrait of his mother the crown prince sat, 
thinking, resting his head, which was too large and heavy, 
and his body, which was too small and thin, in the hollow 
of his carved chair. Though the light was blinding, the 
shadows lay heavy under his tired eyes; though all about 
him seemed on fire, he shivered with cold — a pale, sickly 
child, stifled, weary, worn out already before he had well 
begun to live, and all the glory of the setting sun could 
make nothing else of him. As gaily dressed in his little 
uniform as any of the leaden soldiers drawn up before him, 
he seemed as empty of the breath of life as they, as frail, as 
helpless. 

The sun sank lower, its light crimsoned, and lay slug- 
gish on the floor, like pools of blood. But presently that, 
too, faded, the air grew gray, and shadows blended with 
one another, and floated upward, thickening, slowly thick- 
ening, until familiar objects took on quaint and fearful 
shades. And from the remoter corners of the room, where 
the gloom was deepest, issued mysterious whisperings and 
vague sounds like sighs. 

The crown prince shuddered and looked up. The pic- 
ture of his father had wholly disappeared. His father! 
Ah, here was' one of the questions that most perplexed him 
— did his father love him, and if not, why? why? Was it 
because he was always so muddied in his little head, so 
worried, so tired that he could do nothing right, could 
never satisfy the general, never please anybody? Or was 
it because so many things frightened him, because he cried, 
because — he knew the very word — because he was a cow- 
ard? Perhaps that was the reason no one loved him. And 
this brought him to the most terrible question of all — did his 



252 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

mother love him ? If he only knew ! If he could only tell ! 
Quickly he turned a supplicating glance toward her por- 
trait. That, too, had vanished, the figure withdrawn into 
its frame as if departing through an open door. His mother 
had left him — alone in the coming darkness! Alone, for 
the general seemed to be asleep, and besides, he didn't 
count. 

But was this his mother? If it were, then in some in- 
comprehensible way he must have two mothers — one who 
looked as did she in the picture, too high up, too far away 
to notice little boys, a stranger, almost, to whom the gen- 
eral led him at long intervals that he might kiss her hand 
as she sat in the midst of a crowd of people. But surely 
there was another. How well he remembered one night 
long ago when he was ill — he must have been very ill, for 
the shadows pursued him and he started up panic-stricken 
from dreams that were full of shadows also, and found him- 
self alone, and cried aloud in his terror and desolation. 
But he was not alone. There beside him in all her starry 
loveliness was his other mother — his dream mother, he had 
since loved to call her — and she lifted him from his hot 
bed and laid his aching head on her breast, and crooned 
him to sleep just as if he had been a little baby. Oh, how 
happy he had been ! 

The crown prince could never guess how much of what 
took place that night was real, how much was part of 
shadow land and dream land. But whether real or no, he 
would have been willing to be ill a thousand times if only 
it might have happened just once more. It never did hap- 
pen. Why ? What was the trouble ? Where was the trou- 
ble? Why was he unlike other little boys? Why did not 
his father and mother love him as the fathers and mothers 
of other little boys loved him? And again he asked the 



Material for Interpretation 253 

same old questions, until he returned inevitably to that 
one, the most haunting, the most dreadful of all — did his 
mother love him, and if she did, then why did she never 
come back in the dark nights when his head was hot and 
ached, and the dreams and shadows terrified him? 

He sat in his carved chair, thinking, as the day waned 
and the gloom deepened about him. And, as if in answer 
to his question, the huge gilded crown over the portrait 
of the young queen — dimly outlined in the expiring light 
— seemed to press heavily upon the proud woman and upon 
his own fragile figure as well, crushing them under an 
intolerable weight, thrusting them cruelly down, down, 
into the engulfing shadows. 

Suddenly, with a cry, the boy sprang to his feet. A 
blade of crimson light, the last gleam from the embers 
dying in the west, pierced the darkness, and the crown 
leaped into flame. For an instant the picture seemed to 
be alive — the face convulsed, the body writhing under 
the agony of that blazing coronet. But in the twinkling of 
an eye the fire was quenched, and it was night. 

Then out of the darkness rose a voice: 

"Oh, mother! mother! where are you? where are you? 
Oh, mother, I will try to be brave. Oh, come back from 
the end of the kingdom — come back to your little boy!" 

The general, dozing in a corner, rose abruptly and grop- 
ing in the darkness, he stumbled over the form of his royal 
master lying senseless on the floor at the foot of the queen 's 
picture. 

n 

The night light flickered on the hearth, and the shadows 
danced upon the wall as the crown prince, in the last stage 
of a tremendous journey that had been full of darkness, 



254 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

bewilderment, and peril, climbed slowly, painfully, breath- 
lessly up the toilsome path that leads from the Valley of 
Dreams to the Happy Country where real people live. 
One more effort, and he was near the top : another, and he 
reached the very edge, and knew he was there at last. 
For he could hear as plain as plain could be the familiar 
tread of the sentry marching back and forth, back and 
forth, in the courtyard beneath his window. But was it, 
after all, the sentry's step? No; it was the ticking of a 
watch — a big fat gold watch with a face the size of the 
moon, and behind the watch was a pair of shiny spectacles, 
also of gold, and above the shiny spectacles was a shiny 
dome fringed about with long, straight hair, not of gold 
but of silver. The crown prince watched Spectacles a 
long time, and Spectacles watched him, until at length 
Spectacles began to speak in a voice so kindly and so 
mellow that it seemed golden, too, or else of the finest 
quality of silver. 

"Go to sleep, Your Royal Highness, go to sleep, my 
little man. Do not worry, Your Majesties; he will get 
well. Only do as I advise, and he will live to be as old as 
I am, or older, maybe. ' ' 

At this, the crown prince, wondering about whom Spec- 
tacles was talking, peered a little way over the edge of the 
world and saw his father standing in the middle of the 
floor, his eyes red, his hair tumbled, and his hands buried 
deep in his pockets. He peeped a little farther still, and 
there was the general looking stiffer than ever and with 
so many orders pinned on his breast that he fairly shone; 
but his eyes were also red and he seemed all of a sudden 
to have grown very old, very old indeed, older perhaps 
than Spectacles himself. 

But stop ! Spectacles was talking again, now about some 



Material for Interpretation 255 

wonderful place in the mountains — at the very end of the 
kingdom, the crown prince was glad to learn — where were 
to be found the most extraordinary butter and the richest 
milk and the freshest eggs and the best water — and air. 
It did not appear as if he would ever exhaust this topic, 
but presumably he did so, for after a while he bowed to 
everybody and backed out of the room. 

He had no sooner gone than the king cast one glance 
at the crown prince out of the corner of his eye, and 
straightway fell into a perfect frenzy. He commanded 
the general to get a piece of paper immediately, or, bet- 
ter, a ream, if he could find it, and every pen and pencil 
he could lay his hands on, and to write down forthwith cer- 
tain directions that would be given him, all with the ut- 
most care, so that the slightest chance of an omission or a 
mistake might be avoided. First, there was to be a sand 
pile made at this place in the mountains, a large pile, a 
monstrous pile. 

"Mind you!" said the king, noting with covert eye that 
the crown prince was watching him intently, and shaking 
his finger at the general as if he were a little boy; "mind 
you! the bigger the better, and of the whitest, cleanest, 
softest sand ; and to go with it a wheelbarrow, a bucket and 
a spade. And next — write precisely as I tell you — six 
white ponies, all exactly alike, with long white tails. 
Then, a dozen dogs, the most playful in the kennels, and a 
basketful — a big basketful — of puppies. Next, a fishing- 
rod, and a gun, and — let me see — and a swing, and a trunk- 
ful of games to be played out-of-doors on sunshiny days, 
and two trunkfuls of games to be played indoors on rainy 
days. And — go on — next—" 

But it was useless to go on. The poor general, writing 
like a madman, was miles behind already, so that the king, 



256 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

until he could catch up, sent for one attendant after an- 
other, charging that boxes and trunks be packed with the 
greatest expedition. Finally, the general having caught 
up, or having abandoned his mission as hopeless, and being 
anxious to make a fresh start, asked : — 

"Your Majesty, shall the soldiers belonging to His High- 
ness be taken, or any of his books dealing with military 
matters? And to accompany him, what equerries and 
chamberlains — " 

"No! no!" said a voice almost in the crown prince's ear. 
He could not tell whence it came ; but surely it was the 
sweetest, the softest, the gentlest voice in the whole wide 
world. "No ! no ! We will forget all about being a soldier 
and a king until we are ever so much older— ever, ever so 
much older than we are now. We will forget all about it 
and be a little boy — just a little boy. And we will go away 
from this place and take with us no reminder of it. It is 
stifling. It has kept us apart. It has made me cold and 
heartless. It has made him lonely and miserable. It has 
almost killed him. Think of it ! I might have lost him — 
my little son ! ' ' 

The crown prince looked up and saw his beautiful dream 
mother gazing down at him with eyes full of love and 
pity. 

' ' Mother, is it all real ? Is it you at last ? ' ' 

"Yes, yes, my darling, it is all real, every bit of it." 

"And you won't leave me again, will you? You will al- 
ways stay with me, mother, won't you? Say that you 
will go with me to this wonderful place where the sand 
pile is to be. ' ' 

"Yes, yes, my baby; yes, indeed, I will — you and I all 
alone to the place where the sand pile is to be. ' ' 

"And I won't have to sit on the big book and be deci- 



Material for Interpretation 257 

mated? Nor think about the river, on which my — my — 
on which one of my flanks rest?" 

"No! no! You shall rest on a mother's love. That is 
best, that is safest for little boys." And the queen, smil- 
ing gently, laid her hand on his forehead, and the crown 
prince fell asleep. 

George Woodruff Johnston. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



THE WHIRLIGIG OF LIFE 

Justice of the Peace, Benaja Widdup, sat in the door 
of his office, smoking his elder-stem pipe. Half way to the 
zenith, the Cumberland Range rose, blue-gray in the after- 
noon haze. A speckled hen swaggered down the main 
* street of the ' ' settlement, ' ' cackling foolishly. 

Up the road came a sound of creaking axles, and then 
a slow cloud of dust, and then a bull-cart bearing Ransie 
Bilbro and his wife. The cart stopped at the Justice's 
door, and the two climbed down. Ransie was a narrow 
six feet of sallow, brown skin and yellow hair. The im- 
perturbability of the mountains hung upon him like a 
cloak of armor. The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff- 
brushed, and weary with unknown desires. Through it all 
gleamed a faint protest of cheated youth unconscious of its 
loss. 

The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, 
for the sake of dignity, and moved to let them enter. 

"We-all wants a divo'ce." She looked at Ransie to 
see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or evasion or par- 
tiality or self -partisanship in her statement of their busi- 
ness. 



258 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"A divo'ce. We-all can't git along together nohow. 
It 's lonesome enough fur to live in the mountains when 
a man and a woman keers fur one another. But when 
she 's a s-spittin' like a wildcat or a sullenin' like a hoot- 
owl in the cabin, a man ain't got no call to live with 
her." 

"When he 's a no-count varmint, a traipsin' along of 
scalawags and moonshiners, and a layin ' on his back pizin ' 
'ith corn whiskey, and a pesterin' folks 'ith a pack of 
triflin' hounds to feed!" 

"When she keeps throwin' skillet lids, and slings bilin' 
water on the best coon dog in the Cumberlands, and sets 
herself agin cookin' a man's victuals, and keeps him awoke 
of nights accusin ' him of a sight of doin 's ! " 

"When he 's al'ays a fightin' the revenues, and gits a 
hard name in the mountins fur a mean man, who 's g'wine 
to be able fur to sleep of nights?" 

The Justice of the Peace stirred deliberately to his duties. 
He placed his one chair and a wooden stool for his petition- 
ers. He opened his book of statutes on the table and 
scanned the index. Presently he wiped his spectacles and 
shifted the inkstand. 

"The law and the statutes air silent on the subject of 
divo'ce as fur as jurisdiction of this co't air concerned. 
But accordin' to the equity and the Constitution and the 
Golden Rule it 's a bad bargain that can't run both ways. 
If a Justice can marry a couple it 's plain that he is bound 
to be able to divo'ce 'em. This here office will issue a de- 
cree of divo'ce and abide by the decision of the Supreme 
Co't to hold it good." 

Ransie Bilbro drew a small tobacco bag from his trou- 
sers pocket. Out of this he shook upon the table a five- 
dollar note. 



Material for Interpretation 259 

"Sold a b'ar skin and two foxes for thet. It 's all the 
money we got. ' ' 

"The regular price of a divo'ce in this GVt air five dol- 
lars." He stuffed the bill into the pocket of his homespun 
vest with a deceptive air of indifference. With much bodily 
toil and mental travail he wrote the decree upon half a 
sheet of foolscap, and then copied it upon the other. Ran- 
sie Bilbro and his wife listened to his reading of the docu- 
ment that was to give them freedom : 

"Know all men by these presents, that Ransie Bilbro and 
his wife, Ariela Bilbro this day personally appeared before 
me and promises that hereinafter they will neither love, 
honor nor obey each other, neither for better nor for worse, 
being of sound mind and body, and accept summons for 
divo'ce according to the peace and dignity of the state. 
Herein fail not, so help you God. Benaja Widdup, Jus- 
tice of the Peace in and for the county of Piedmont, State 
of Tennessee." 

The Justice was about to hand one of the documents to 
Ransie. The voice of Ariela delayed the transfer. Both 
men looked at her. Their dull masculinity was confronted 
by something sudden and unexpected in the woman. 

"Judge, don't you give him that air paper yit. 'T ain't 
all settled, nohow. I got to have my alimoney. 'T ain't 
no kind of a way to do fur a man to divo'ce his wife 'thout 
her havin' a cent fur to do with. I 'm layin' off to be 
a-goin' up to brother Ed's, up on Hogback Mountin. I 'm 
bound fur to hev a pa'r of shoes and some snuff and things 
besides. Ef Ranse kin affo'd a divo'ce, let him pay me 
alimoney. ' ' 

Ransie Bilbro was stricken to dumb perplexity. There 
had been no previous hint of alimony. Women were al- 
ways bringing up startling and uncalled-for issues. 



260 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Justice Benaja Widdup felt that the point demanded 
judicial advice. The authorities were also silent on the 
subject of alimony. But the woman's feet were bare. The 
trail to Hogback mountain was steep and flinty. 

"Ariela Bilbro, how much did you 'low would be good 
and sufficient alimoney in the case befo' the co't?" 

' ■ I 'lowed fur the shoes and all, to say five dollars. That 
ain't much fur alimoney, but I reckon that '11 git me up to 
brother Ed's." 

"The amount air not onreasonable. Ransie Bilbro, you 
air ordered by the co't to pay the plaintiff the sum of five 
dollars befo' the decree of divo'ce air issued." 

"I hain't no mo' money, I done paid you all I had, but 
I reckon if you gimme till tomorrow I mout be able to rake 
or scrape it up somewhars. I never looked for payin' no 
alimoney. ' ' 

"The case air adjourned till tomorrow, when you-all 
will present yo 'selves and obey the order of the co't. Fol- 
lo)vin' of which the decrees of divo'ce will be delivered," 
and he sat down in the door and began loosening a shoe- 
string. 

' i We mout as well go down to Uncle Ziah 's for the night, ' ' 
decided Ransie. He climbed in the cart on one side and 
Ariela climbed in on the other. Obeying the flip of his 
rope, the little red bull came slowly around on a tack and 
the cart crawled away in the nimbus arising from its wheels. 

Justice of the Peace, Benaja "Widdup lived in the double 
log cabin on the slope near the girdled poplar. Going 
home to supper, he crossed a little branch darkened by a 
laurel thicket. The dark figure of a man stepped from the 
laurels and pointed a rifle at his breast. His hat was 
pulled down low, and something 1 covered most of his face. 

"I want yo' money 'thout any talk. I 'm a gettin' 



Material for Interpretation 261 

nervous, and my finger 's a wabblin' on this here trigger.' ' 

"I 've got only f-f-five dollars," said the Justice, pro- 
ducing it from his vest pocket. 

"Roll it up/' and stick it in the end of this here gun- 
bar '1." 

The bill was crisp and new. Even fingers that were 
clumsy and trembling found little difficulty in making a 
spill of it and inserting it (this with less ease) into the 
muzzle of the rifle. 

"Now I reckon you kin be goin' along," and the Justice 
lingered not on his way. 

The next day came the little red bull drawing the cart 
to the office door. Justice Benaja Widdup had his shoes 
on, for he was expecting this visit. Ransie Bilbro handed 
his wife a five dollar bill. The official's eye viewed it 
sharply. It seemed to curl up as though it had been rolled 
and inserted into the end of a gun-barrel. But the Justice 
refrained from comment. It is true other bills might be 
inclined to curl. He handed each one a decree of divorce. 
Each stood awkwardly silent, slowly folding the guarantee 
of freedom. The woman cast a sly glance full of con- 
straint at Ransie. 

"I reckon you 11 be goin' back to the cabin, along 'ith 
the bull-cart. There 's bread in the tin box settin' on the 
shelf. I put the bacon in the b'ilin'-pot to keep the hounds 
from gittin' it. Don't forgit to wind the clock tonight." 

"You air a goin' to your brother Ed's — " 

"I was 'lowin' to get along up thar afore night, I ain't 
sayin' as they '11 pester theyselves any to make me wel- 
come, but I ain't nowhar else fur to go. It 's a right smart 
ways, and I reckon I better be goin'. I '11 be a sayin' 
good-by — Ranse — that is, if you keer fur to say so." 

"I don't know as anybody 's a hound dog fur to not 



262 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

want to say good-by — 'less you air so anxious to git away 
that you don't want me to say it." 

Ariela was silent. She folded the five-dollar bill and 
her decree carefully, and placed them in the bosom of her 
dress. Benaja Widdup watched the money disappear with 
mournful eyes behind the spectacles. 

And then, with his next words, he achieved rank (as his 
thoughts ran) with either the great crowd of the world's 
sympathizers or the little crowd of the great financiers. 

"Be kind o' lonesome in the old cabin tonight, Ranse." 

Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear blue 
now in the sunlight. He did not look at Ariela. 

( ' I 'low it might be lonesome, but when folks gits mad and 
wants a divo 'ce, you can 't make folks stay. ' ' 

"There 's others wanted a divo'ce," said Ariela, speak- 
ing to the wooden stool. "Besides, nobody don't want no- 
body to stay." 

"Nobody never said they didn't." 

"Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start 
on now to brother Ed's." 

"Nobody can't wind that clock." 

"Want me to go back along 'ith you in the cart and wind 
it fur you, Ranse?" 

The mountaineer's countenance was proof against emo- 
tion. But he reached out a big hand and enclosed Ariela 's 
thin brown one. Her soul peeped out once through her 
impassive face, hallowing it. 

"Them hounds shan't pester you no more. I reckon 
I been mean and low down. You wind that clock, 
Ariela." 

"My heart hit 's in that cabin, Ranse," she whispered, 
"along 'ith you. I ain't a goin' to git mad no more. Le 's 
be startin', Ranse, so 's we kin get home by sundown." 



Material for Interpretation 263 

Justice of the Peace, Benaja Widdup, interposed as they 
started for the door, forgetting his presence. 

"In the name of the State of Tennessee, I forbid you-all 
to be a-defying of its laws and statutes. This co't is mo' 
than willin' and full of joy to see the clouds of discord 
and misunderstandin ' rollin' away from two lovin' hearts, 
but it air the duty of the co't to p 'serve the morals and 
integrity of the State. The co't reminds you that you air 
no longer man and wife, but air divo'ced by regular de- 
cree, and as such air not entitled to the benefits and 'pur- 
tenances of the mattermonial estate. 

"But the co't air prepared fur to remove the disabilities 
set up by the decree of divo'ce. The co't air on hand to 
perform the solemn ceremony of marriage, thus fixin' things 
up and enablin' the parties in the case to resume the hon- 
or 'ble and elevatin' state of mattermony which they de- 
sires. The fee fur performin' said ceremony will be, in this 
case, to wit, five dollars." 

Ariela caught the gleam of promise in his words. 
Swiftly her hand went to her bosom. Freely as an alight- 
ing dove the bill fluttered to the Justice's table. Her sal- 
low cheek colored as she stood, hand in hand with Ransie, 
and listened to the re-uniting words. 

Ransie helped her into the cart and climbed in beside 
her. The little red bull turned once more, and they set 
out, hand-clasped, for the mountains. 

Justice of the Peace, Benaja Widdup sat in his door and 
took off his shoes. Once again he fingered the bill tucked 
down in his vest pocket. Once again he smoked his elder- 
stem pipe and once again the speckled hen swaggered down 
the main street of the "settlement," cackling foolishly. 

0. Henry. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



264 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 



THE LEGACY 1 

Precisely as the five o'clock steamer passed the cottage, 
Mrs. McBean set the freshly-filled kettle on the fire. After 
a glance at the tea-table with its abundance of homely fare, 
she stepped across the kitchen to the window. Peter ought 
to be in sight immediately, and on this spring evening she 
was particularly anxious to catch a glimpse of his face ere 
he reached the cottage. Her right hand, browned and with- 
ered, was laid against the shutter as if for support ; her left 
was pressed to her breast, whence came, as she heaved a 
sigh, a faint rustle of paper. 

She hoped — she almost prayed — that her husband might 
return as cheerful of humor as he had left her that morn- 
ing, when he had taken the steamer to Glasgow in order 
to receive payment of a legacy of two hundred and fifty 
pounds bequeathed to him by a cousin who, having made 
a small fortune in Canada, had died there, remembering 
at the last his old home and sundry of his old friends. 
She had smiled happily on Peter as he set out to catch 
the early steamer, bidding him hasten home again to as- 
sure her that the much discussed legacy was really a fact ; 
and now she almost dreaded his return. 

The kettle began to "sing," and she started at the fa- 
miliar sound. Peter ought to have rounded the bend of 
the shore-road by now. Had he missed the steamer? Had 
he been stopped by some of the village gossips? It was not 
fair of him when he knew she was waiting to be assured 
that the money was real. . . . 

"Haste ye, Peter," she murmured, and then remem- 
bered the paper at her breast. How a bit of flimsy paper 

i Copyrighted J. B. Lippincott Co., Feb., 1910. 



Material for Interpretation 265 

with a few lines of writing can blight one's whole world 
of satisfaction ! 

Mrs. McBean gave a shiver, and her sight became blurred. 
When she had wiped her eyes she saw her husband. He 
came along briskly, jauntily for an old man to whom rheu- 
matism was no stranger. He waved one hand and patted 
his chest significantly with the other. She waved also, and 
felt the paper in her bosom. She turned abruptly from 
the window. The kettle was boiling, and she was glad to 
have something to do. 

Peter entered the kitchen, chuckling, and banged the door 
behind him. 

"See what I was buyin', Marget!" he cried. "Ye '11 be 
upsides wi ' yer neebors noo ! ' ' 

"Oh, Peter!" she whispered, staring at the small packet 
he had pushed into her hand. "Oh, Peter, what 's this?" 

"Look an' see!" he returned, with a great hearty laugh. 

With awkward fingers she removed the white paper, un- 
covering a white box. 

"Oh, Peter!" she whispered once more, and opened the 
box. It contained, resting on cotton wool, a big gold brooch 
set with a single amethyst, an old-fashioned ornament, but 
dazzling to her eyes. She said never a word. 

"I was thinkin' it was time ye had a bit joolry forbye 
yer chain," said Peter pleasantly. "Hoo dae ye like it, 
auld wife?" 

"Oh, Peter, ye 're ower guid to me," she said, at last, 
striving to keep back the tears. "I wasna needin' — " 

"D'ye no' like it?" 

"Ay. I like it, but — but I dinna ken what to say to ye, 
Peter. I — I hope it didna cost an awfu' heap o' siller. 
But it — it 's rale bonny, Peter; it 's rale braw, an' — an' 
I 'm that prood to get it. . . . Did — did it cost an awfu' — M 



266 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

6 ' Tits, wife ! Never heed aboot that. If ye like it, that \s 
an end to the story. I Ve aye wanted ye to ha'e as braw 
a brooch as Mistress Macadam, an' I believe I 've got ye a 
brawer! An' I brocht the money to let ye see it afore it 
gangs to the bank. Ye can coont it yersel' efter we Ve 
had wur tea. Is 't near ready ? ' ' 

"Jist ready. The money was a' richt, Peter?" 

"Every penny. I Ve been blessin' puir Geordie a' the 
road hame." 

"Ay; I wish Geordie could ken what he 's done for us. 
. . . Sit down, Peter. Ye '11 be hungry." 

1 ' Try on yer brooch, Marget. ' ' 

"Oh, na, na. I '11 keep it for the Sawbath." 

' ' Try it on noo. Never heed yer auld claes. ' ' 

And she fastened it at her neck, to please him, the paper 
under her bodice rustled, and her wet eyes grew fearful. 
But Peter was looking at the brooch. 

"My! It suits ye fine! Keep it on till efter we 've had 
wur meat," he said, and began to cut bread, while she 
poured out the tea. 

A little later he noticed that she was eating noth- 
ing. 

"What ails ye, wife?" he demanded. "Are ye no' 
weel?" 

"I 'm fine, Peter, I 'm fine," she answered hurriedly. 

"Ye 're no' lookin' extra fine. Ye dinna look as if her 
man had come hame wi' twa hunner an' fifty pound in his 
pooch, eh? Are ye no' pleased wi' yer brooch?" 

"Aw, Peter, I 'm pleased — I 'm jist terrible pleased wi' 
ma brooch," she protested. "But, ye see, it was a — a ter- 
rible surprise to get it. Maybe that 's the reason I 'm no' 
hungry. ' ' 

1 ' An ' ye 've never speirt what adventures I had the day, ' ' 



Material for Interpretation 267 

he proceeded, after a long pull at his tea-cup. "A body 
wud think ye wasna heedin' aboot the siller." 

' { Oh, but I 'm heedin ' aboot it. Tell me yer adventures. ' ' 

"I had nane," he said, with a hearty laugh. "It was a' 
as easy as A B C, an' the lawyer body parted wi' the cash 
as if it was dirt. I got it a' in five-pound notes, an' they '11 
gang to the bank the morn's mornin'. But I 11 tell ye 
something that '11 gar ye sit up, auld wife. ' ' 

"What, Peter?" 

"IVe decided to retire frae business!" — this with an- 
other laugh. 

An inarticulate cry escaped the old woman. 

"Dinna speak till I 've tell 't ye a' aboot it," said 
Peter. "Ye see, I 've been thinkin' aboot retirin' since I 
first got word o' Geordie's legacy. I 've been workin' hard 
for fifty year. . . . An' when I got the cash in ma haun' 
the day, I thocht aboot retirin ' mair serious nor ever. An ' 
when I got near hame the nicht, an' seen auld Jake Munro 
sittin' at his door, in his carpet slippers, smokin' his pipe 
an' readin' his paper, as happy as a king, wi' naethin' to 
bother him — I made up ma mind to follow his guid example, 
an' retire frae business as sune as possible." 

"But Peter—" 

" "Whisht, wumman! I 'm no' feenished yet. As I was 
sayin',~I 've been thinkin' aboot it since I heard o' Geordie's 
legacy. Afore that I never had ony notion o' retirin' — 
till I couldna help it. But I Ve been calculating an' I 
see ma road clear. Wi' the siller we 've got pit by, an' 
the legacy, an' what I could get for the nursery an' the 
tomato-hooses, there wud be plenty to keep you an' me as 
weel as we are the noo, as lang as we 're spared. I wudna 
ha'e risked it wi'oot the legacy, but noo — weel, what think 
ye, Marget?" 



268 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

She did not answer at once. She could not. Her simple 
mind was in a turmoil of warring thoughts. At last she 
managed to speak. 

"Are ye no' weel, Peter? Are ye feelin' no' fit for yer 
wark?" 

"I never felt better nor fitter. But I 've been workin' 
hard for fifty year, an' I Ve as muckle richt to tak' it easy 
as ony man — as muckle richt as Jake Munro. As I cam' 
by I speirt at him hoo he liket daein' naethin\ He said he 
hadna enjeyed hissel' sae weel since he was a laddie." 

With an effort the old woman said: "But Jake Munro 
has neither wife nor bairns to heed aboot. He 's — " 

"But did I no' tell ye there wud <be plenty for you an' 
me, Marget? D'ye think I wud stop workin' if I wasna 
sure you wud be safe f rae want ? ' ' 

"Oh, Peter, ye ken I didna mean that. But — " 

"An' the bairns need naethin' frae us," he went on in 
tones of satisfaction. "Thenk the Lord, they 're a' daein' 
weel — every yin o' them, lad an' lass — especially John. 
'Deed, wife, I '11 no' be surprised if John does something 
han'some for us auld yins afore he 's mony years aulder. 
I 'm prood o' John. It 's no' every young man than can 
start business on his ain account wi' his ain savin's. I 'm 
thinkin' John '11 stop at a single grocery shop — What 
ails ye, wife?" Peter stared across the table in alarm. 

Marget 's lips were moving without sound in a most 
piteous fashion; her hand clutched her breast. Peter did 
not hear the faint rustle of paper. 

"What ails ye, dearie?" he cried, rising. 

"Sit doon, Peter; sit doon, man," she contrived to mut- 
ter. "I — I 'm better noo. Dinna be feart." 

"But what was it?" 

"Oh, — jist a bit pain; a — a — " 



Material for Interpretation 269 

1 ' Pain ! Whaur was the pain ? ' ' 

"I think it was in ma hert; but it 's awa' noo. Dinna 
fash yersel'." She made a miserable failure of a smile. 

' ' In yer hert ! ' ' His voice was full of dismay. ' ' I best 
gang for the doctor — " 

"Na, na. I tell ye I 'm better." 

But it took a long time to persuade him that she was. 
He was not wholly satisfied when, after tea, he set out to 
visit his nursery and tomato-houses. 

"I '11 no' be lang," he said kindly. "Sit doon an' rest 
ye, Marget. Maybe," he added, with an attempt at jocu- 
larity, "it 's you that sud be retirin' frae business. But 
when I retire, I '11 ha'e to help ye aboot the hoose." 

Mrs. McBean tried to smile as he passed through the 
gate. Then she went back to the kitchen and tidied up, 
doing all the little chores methodically as was her wont, 
while now and then the paper in her bosom crackled softly. 
Everything being set in order and the hearth made bright, 
she seated herself in her accustomed chair and drew the 
paper to her bosom. It was a letter, and since its arrival 
in the morning, shortly after her man's departure, she had 
learned its contents almost by heart. She read it once 
more, but gained neither hope nor comfort from its pages. 
Unchecked, the tears ran down her face. 

"What am I to dae?" she asked herself. "Hoo am I to 
tell Peter? . . . Oh, I canna tel lhim; I canna tell him, an' 
him that prood an' happy." 

She put her hand to her throat, for it hurt her, and 
came upon her husband's gift. How proud she would have 
been of the brooch a day ago! She unpinned it, and, ris- 
ing unsteadily, put it safely away. And then she went 
back to asking herself what she was to do, and getting no 
answer. . . . 



270 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The clock struck eight, warning her that Peter would 
soon be home. Going to the window, she perceived him 
comjng along the road. His step was less jaunty than it 
had been three hours earlier; still, he looked a cheerful old 
man. 

Marget drew back from the window, the letter clutched 
in her hand. What was she to do ? ... In a panic she laid 
the letter on the table, and hurried from the kitchen and 
the cottage. 

As she reached the open air she heard the tramp of her 
husband on the dry, sandy road. She slipped round a 
great rhododendron that almost filled one half of the small 
garden, and sank, all quaking, on a rough bench. It was 
dusk, and the air was growing chilly. She heard the click 
of the gate, the crunching of the gravel, Peter's heavy tread 
on entering the cottage. And she clasped her hands and 
prayed incoherently, while she saw agonizing visions of what 
was passing in the kitchen. She had always feared her hus- 
band a little : she knew that he could be stern, severe, hard ; 
that of all things he hated failure, and found failure on the 
part of others most difficult to forgive. She had no hope 
that he would forgive, much less help, in this case. Her 
small world with all its simple joys had fallen about her 
ears. She sat there awaiting the worst. 

Peter found the letter on the table. 

"Frae John/' he said to himself. "What wey did she, 
no' tell me? . . . Marget!" he called. 

Without waiting for her answer, he sat down eagerly to 
read it, peering at it in the dusk rather than waste a mo- 
ment in lighting the lamp. After all, there was sufficient 
light for bad news. 

He gave a gasp, and then his face became set and merci- 



Material for Interpretation 271 

less. He read through the letter — it was not long — that told 
how his eldest son, in whom he had taken so much pride, was 
in desperate straits for lack of money. John wrote the dis- 
mal tale of how he had attempted too big a business on too 
small a capital ; of how his customers delayed paying their 
accounts while his creditors would wait no longer for theirs ; 
of how r it would take the impossible sum of three hundred 
pounds to save him from bankruptcy. A common-place 
tale — when it does not come too near home. 

Peter McBean read his son's letter a second time, with- 
out any relaxation of his rugged old features. He turned 
it crver to read a third time, but now tta light failed him. 
He dropped it on his knee and sat motionless. Nearly an 
hour went by. 

"Mar get," he called. 

Out in the garden she heard her name, and shuddered. 
Perhaps it was well that she made no response at all. 

Five minutes passed. The fire had burned low. 

"Marget!" he called again, and there was no softening in 
his voice. 

But all of a sudden the question smote him — where was 
his wife? The memory stabbed him. She had not been 
well at tea-time. ... If anything were to happen to 
Marget — 

He got up, coughing loudly. Groping across the almost 
dark room, he whispered her name. He opened the door 
of the seldom-used parlor. . . . Not there. 

"Marget," he said unsteadily. 

He went out to the gate and peered up and down the 
road, feeling strangely helpless. He was in the midst of 
silences, save for the slow, melancholy wash of the water 
on the beach below where he stood. Fear leaped upon 
him. 



272 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"Ma Marget," broke from his lips, involuntarily, all but 
soundlessly. "Whaur are ye?" 

A slight noise reached his ears. . . . 

He came upon her in her retreat before she was aware. 
She was on her knees on the cold grass. . . . 

And his eyes were opened, so that in the bowed, shrunken 
figure he beheld the old woman who still toiled bravely 
for his comfort, the woman who had borne him sons and 
daughters, the woman he had courted long ago — so long 
ago. And her agony in the little garden was less, though 
longer, than his. . . . 

She realized his presence and tried to rise. He helped 
her to her feet and kept his arm round her, for she seemed 
about to fall. 

" Market," he said hoarsely, "ye maun gang an' soe John 
first thing the morn's mornin'. Tak' him this" — he 
pressed a softish packet into her hand — "an' tell him — 
tell him his father '11 no' see him beat. Tell him that, wife. 
An' tak' guid care o' what I 've gi'ed ye," 

"But what is 't, Peter?" she stammered. 

"Oh, jist the legacy; jist the legacy," he replied, with a 
queer laugh. 

"Oh, Peter, Peter, ma guidman Peter!" 

"Whisht, auld wife! . . . Ye — ye wasna the only yin to 
ha'e a pain in yer hert. . . . Come ben the hoose, or ye '11 
be gettin' yer daith o' cauld." 

Presently they entered the cottage together. 

J. J. Bell 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. , 



Material for Interpretation 273 

THE KIRBY WEDDING 

"Well, I don't know, I Ve been thinking about a pickle 
caster, ' ' said Mrs. Kirby doubtfully. 

"Humph," said Mr. Kirby, "now that \s just like you — 
a pickle caster ! Did you ever hear of a couple getting mar- 
ried that they did n't get a thousand pickle casters?" 

"Well, I never knew for sure of over six or seven, but 
what 's a body to do? Everything 's old." 

"Oh, get out, 't ain't so. There 's a plenty of new things 
if you put your mind to it. The trouble with you is — you 
don't think." 

Said Mrs. K. resignedly, "I s'pose there are a plenty of 
things. Now, a nice set of nut picks might — " 

"There you go again, Amanda, I never seen a table of 
wedding presents that wasn't just alive with nut-picks. 
Yes, and spoons, and carving-knives, and napkin rings, and 
salt cellars, and all of them things. What you want to do 
is just to forget 'em all." 

"Mebby you 're right, Walter (still more resignedly) but 
Jennie 's been a good girl and we must give her some- 
thing. When Esther Purdy got married her folks guv her 
an etching." 

"What 's an etching?" 

"A kind of a picture that comes in a frame. They have 
? em at John I's furniture store, very tasty, John says. 
Hester's was of a mill with a big wheel outside and a stream 
with a little flat-boat drawed up on the shore. She has it 
hung on the wall with a scarf over one corner — " 

"Got red mittens and overshoes on it too? Probably 
such things don't duplicate like sugar-spoons and butter 
knives but what 's the use of 'em? Specialty if you 've 



274 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

got to go to the expense of dressing 'em up ? No, sir, we '11 
give Jen something practical." 

"Well, what do you calculate it will be?" 

"Well, Jen 's been a good girl and Hen 's a rather likely 
feller, if he is a Jones — we '11 just give 'em something they 
won't be swamped with and won't have to dress up. We '11 
give 'em a cow and calf. " Mrs. Kirby had at first no reply. 
The radical character of the suggestion rather overcame 
her naturally conservative mind. At last she said 
guardedly, 

"That might be a good idea, but it wouldn't make no 
show. I sort o' wanted Jennie to have a good, showy, 
interesting wedding." 

"No, a cow and a calf don't show like triple plated 
spoons, you can't polish 'em up and put 'em in plush-lined 
cases with tissue paper round the handuls." 

"I meant they ain't anything you could put on the table 
with the other presents." 

"Hey? I dunno, the cow might be a little heavy, spe- 
cially as I planned to make it old Sukey. But her calf, 
Lucifer, he ain't so hefty, might put him on. Maybe he 'd 
kick off some o' the pickle casters and eat up a few hand- 
worked doilers and piller-shams." 

Mr. Kirby 's subtle sarcasm was lost on his wife. She 
only sighed after her way, and said, "I guess your idea is a 
good one, Walter, tho I did want Jennie to have a showy 
and interesting wedding." 

The son of the family here joined in with "What 's the 
matter of tying 'em to the big lilac bush in the front yard ? 
They 'd show there fust rate." 

"James Henry, you keep still," snapped his mother try- 
ing to take out her disappointment on the boy. 

"Well, now, Jim's notion ain't so bad. I reckon old 



Material for Interpretation 275 

Sukey wouldn't beller, — not if Lucifer was with her. 
He 's getting pretty kinky himself tho, since his horns be- 
gun to sprout, and he might let out a blat once in a while." 
Mrs. K. rose decisively, for notwithstanding her general 
meekness, she could on rare occasions be decisive. 

"Well, you can go ahead with your critter giving, if 
you want to, and let 'em come from you. I 'm going to 
get Jennie a nice silver butter dish and one of them etch- 
ings at John I's, and I '11 get 'em with egg money, and 
they '11 be all mine, and come from me. You folks just get 
me up some wood" — and she disappeared in the kitchen. 

The wedding of Jennie Kirby and Henry Jones was an 
important event at Long Prairie, as both were popular and 
came of well-known families. To be sure, the bride's 
father was looked upon as somewhat too radical in some 
of his views, but nobody ever doubted that he meant well. 
The cow-and-calf departure was therefore readily accepted 
as only one of Mr. Kirby 's eccentricities. Indeed, it found 
some supporters among the men, many of whom had been 
forced by their wives to contribute pickle-casters and other 
conventional gimcracks which jarred their practical sense, 
at other weddings, and this one as well. 

When the day arrived Mr. Kirby had so far modified the 
ingenious James Henry's suggestion as to tie the cow and 
her ambitious offspring at the side of the house, just out- 
side of the low window before which stood the table loaded 
with the more usual presents. As the guests came up to 
view this display they were sure to find Mr. Kirby lurking 
about, ready smilingly to indicate the cow through the open 
window outside as his own particular contribution to the 
festivities. She was pronounced by all a very fine animal, 
as she stood contentedly chewing her cud, with a broad 
pink ribbon around her neck — something which showed the 



276 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

touch of Mrs. Kirby. Lucifer was not tied, though also in 
a gala-day attire, with narrow ribbons on his ears and flut- 
tering over his budding horns ; he was universally conceded 
to be a " promising critter," and with true youthful bovine 
instinct, wandered about the immediate neighborhood and 
investigated everything by cautiously thrusting forward an 
inquiring nose and suddenly retreating. Mrs. Kirby had 
become by this time fully reconciled to the live-stock idea, 
since she had carried out her own plan as to the butter- 
dish and etching to the letter; and now that the day had 
come and there was an unusually large contribution of the 
regulation presents from friends, she was even rather glad 
of the practicalness of her husband's gift. 

The ceremony was set for high noon, and promptly on the 
hurried staccato stroke of the parlor clock the couple came 
in and the minister took his place. Lucifer, true to his 
name, had not been idle. Having exhausted everything 
else, he turned to the open window. By stretching a little 
he managed to reach the edge of the clean white cloth which 
covered the table on which the presents were displayed. A 
prehensile tongue had gathered in its edge, and willing teeth 
were testing its qualities as an object of mastication. His 
mother continued to content herself with her natural cud, 
and paid no attention to him. Inside, the company was all 
oblivious, and the minister began the ceremony in the usual 
form. Suddenly there came from the other room the sharp 
rattle of falling silver-ware, mingled with the crash of man- 
tel clocks and framed etchings. 

' • Geewhillikers ! ! Lucifer has yanked out the table cloth, 
presents and all. Come, fellers/' shouted James Henry and 
shot away followed by the entire youthful contingent. Mr. 
K. returned from a hasty trip to the other room. "That 
blamed old cow has got the cloth hooked on her horns, and 



Material for Interpretation 277 

she '11 run herself to death. Come on, some o'.you active 
fellers." 

"Perhaps we had better wait a few minutes," said the 
minister. The bridegroom frowned and the bride bit her 
lip. Sounds of strife floated in from the small yard in 
front, where Sukey was charging about, followed by the 
men, with the cloth floating over her like a cloud, while 
the redoubtable Lucifer was shooting this way and that 
occasionally uttering a loud "Bar-r-r-r !" the boys crying — 
"Look out, there," "Head 'er!" "Stop 'im!"*" Close up, 
there!" 

The men soon succeeded in cornering the cow and remov- 
ing the object of her terror, but for the boys Lucifer was a 
more difficult problem. His activity was only equalled by 
his pugnacity; he had already kicked three of them and 
bunted as many more. Then James Henry got hold of his 
tail, shouting, as he did so, "Now we 've got him, fellers!" 
Vain notion ! With a "bar-r-r-r" louder than any previous 
one, he charged straight in the open front door, James 
Henry flying behind. The minister leaped upon the parlor 
organ, and the women all mounted chairs. All except the 
bride, who stood resolute, the calf coming straight for her. 
With trusting young love she depended on the man by her 
side. Nor did he fail her. With a smothered but heart- 
felt "Gosh!" he lunged forward and engaged the oncoming 
Lucifer in a deadly grapple. Victory at first favored the 
intruder. The bridegroom went down. But he hung on. 
Then he wriggled about and got to his feet. Then he 
leaned over, and with a mighty effort gathered that ob- 
streperous calf in his arms and walked out the front door 
with him. An empty rain-barrel stood near. Into this, 
tail first, the bridegroom thrust the calf. The next moment 
he was back beside his bride, had whispered a word in her 



278 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

ear, and the ceremony went on. Fifteen minutes later, 
when the young couple had been congratulated and well 
wished, Mr. K. walked over to his wife and said — 

"Well, Amanda, well, I think we had quite a showy and 
interesting wedding after all." 

Hayden Carruth. 



PART PANTHER OR SOMETHING 

On a fair Saturday afternoon in early November, Penrod 
Schofield's little old dog Duke returned to the ways of his 
youth and had trouble with a strange cat on the back 
porch. This indiscretion, so uncharacteristic, was due to 
the agitation of a surprised moment, for Duke's experience 
had inclined him to a peaceful pessimism, and he had no 
ambition for hazardous undertakings of any sort, and he 
seemed habitually to hope for something which he was 
pretty sure would not happen. Thus, being asleep in a 
nook behind the metal refuse-can, when the strange cat 
ventured to ascend the steps of the porch, his appearance 
was so unwarlike that the cat felt encouraged to extend its 
field of reconnaissance — for the cook had been careless, and 
the back-bone of a three-pound whitefish lay at the foot of 
the refuse-can. 

This cat was, for a cat, almost needlessly tall, powerful, 
independent, and masculine. Once, long ago, he had been 
a roly-poly pepper-and-salt kitten ; he had a home in those 
days, and a name, "Gipsy," which he abundantly justi- 
fied. He was precocious in dissipation. Long before his 
adolescence, his lack of domesticity was ominous, and he 
had formed bad companionships. He wanted free air and 




Material for Interpretation 

he wanted free life ; he wanted the lights, the lights and the 
music. He went forth in a May twilight, carrying the eve- 
ning beefsteak with him, and joined the underworld. 

His extraordinary size, his daring, and his utter lack of 
sympathy soon made him the leader — and, at the same time, 
the terror — of all the loose-lived cats in a wide neighbor- 
hood. He contracted no friendships and had no confidants. 
He seldom slept in the same place twice in succession, and 
though he was wanted by the police, he was not found. In 
appearance he did not lack distinction of an ominous sort ; 
the slow, rhythmic, perfectly controlled mechanism of his 
tail, as he impressively walked abroad, was incomparably 
sinister. Intolerant, proud, sullen, yet watchful and con- 
stantly planning, believing in slaughter as in a religion, 
Gipsy had become, though technically not a wildcat, un- 
doubtedly the most untamed cat at large in the civilized 
world. Such was the terrifying creature which now 
elongated its neck, and, over the top step of the porch, bent 
a calculating scrutiny upon the wistful and slumberous 
Duke. 

The scrutiny was searching but not prolonged. It was 
a desirable fish-bone, large, with a considerable portion of 
the fish's tail still attached to one end of it. 

It was about a foot from Duke's nose, and the little dog's 
dreams began to be troubled by his olfactory nerve. This 
faithful sentinel, on guard even while Duke slept, signaled 
that alarums and excursions by parties unknown were tak- 
ing place, and suggested that attention might well be paid. 
Duke opened one drowsy eye. What that eye beheld was 
monstrous. All about Duke were the usual and reassuring 
environs of his daily life, and yet it was his fate to behold, 
right in the midst of them, and in ghastly juxtaposition to 
his face, a thing of nightmare and lunacy. 



280 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Gipsy had seized the fish-bone by the middle. Out from 
one side of his head, and mingling with his whiskers, pro- 
jected the long spiked spine of the big fish; down from the 
other side of that ferocious head dangled the fish's tail, 
and, from above the remarkable effect thus produced, shot 
the intolerable glare of two yellow eyes. To the gaze of 
Duke, still blurred by slumber, this monstrosity was all of 
one piece — the bone seemed a living part of it. It was 
impossible for him to maintain a philosophic calm before 
this spined and spiky face. On the contrary, Duke was so 
electrified that he completely lost his presence of mind. In 
the very instant of his first eye 's opening, the other eye and 
his mouth behaved similarly, the latter loosing upon the 
quiet air one shriek of mental agony before he scrambled 
to his feet and gave further employment to his voice in a 
frenzy of profanity. At the same time, a demoniac bass 
viol was heard; it rose to a wail, and fell and rose again 
till it screamed like- a steam siren. It was Gipsy's war- 
cry, and, at the sound of it, Duke became a frothing maniac. 
He made a convulsive frontal attack upon the hobgoblin — 
and the massacre began. 

Never releasing the fish-bone for an instant, Gipsy laid 
back his ears in a chilling way, beginning to shrink into 
himself like a concertina but rising amidships so high that 
he appeared to be giving an imitation of that peaceful 
beast, the dromedary. Then, he partially sat down and 
elevated his right arm after the manner of a semaphore. 
It remained rigid for a second, threatening ; then it vibrated 
with inconceivable rapidity, feinting. But it was the 
treacherous left that did the work. Seemingly this left 
gave Duke three lightning little pats upon the right ear, but 
the change in his voice indicated that these were no love- 
taps. He yelled ' ' help ! ' ' and ' ' bloody murder ! ' ' 



Material for Interpretation 281 

The hum of the carpenter shop ceased, and Sam Williams 
appeared in the stable doorway. He stared insanely. 

"My gorry! Duke 's havin' a fight with the biggest cat 
you ever saw in your life ! C 'mon ! ' ' 

His feet were already in motion toward the battle-field, 
with Penrod and Herman hurrying in his wake. Onward 
they sped, and Duke was encouraged by the sight and 
sound of these reinforcements. Gipsy beheld the advance 
of overwhelming forces coming from two directions, cutting 
off the steps of the porch. Undaunted, the formidable cat 
raked Duke's nose again, somewhat more lingeringly, then 
he decided to leave the field to his enemies and to carry 
the fish-bone elsewhere. He took two giant leaps. The 
first landed him upon the edge of the porch ; there, without 
an instant's pause, he gathered his fur-sheathed muscles, 
concentrated himself into one big steel spring, and launched 
himself superbly into space. He made a stirring picture, 
however brief, as he left the solid porch behind him and 
sailed upward on an ascending curve into the sunlit air. 
It is possible that the whitefish's spinal column and flopping 
tail had interfered with his vision, and in launching him- 
self he may have mistaken the dark, round opening of the 
cistern for its dark, round cover. In that case, it was a 
leap calculated and executed with precision, for, as the boys 
howled their pleased astonishment, Gipsy descended accu- 
rately into the orifice and passed majestically from public 
view, with the fishbone still in his mouth and his haughty 
head still high. 

There was a grand splash ! 

Excitement ran high for a few seconds, with Gipsy curs- 
ing from the depths of the well and Duke raging at his 
enemy in safety, while the boys discussed means of remov- 
ing the cat from the well. Sam had a plan. 



282 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"Once when a kitten fell down. our cistern, papa took a 
pair of his trousers, and he held 'em by the end of one leg, 
and let 'em hang down thru the hole till the end of the 
other leg was in the water, and the kitten went and clawed 
hold of it, and he pulled it right up, easy as anything. All 
you got to do is to go and ast your mother for a pair of 
your father's trousers, and we '11 have this ole cat out o' 
there in no time." 

Penrod glanced toward the house perplexedly. 

"She ain't home, and I 'd be afraid to — " 

"Well, take your own, then," Sam suggested briskly. 
"You take 'em off in the stable, and wait in there, and I 
and Herman '11 get the cat out." 

"Well, I don't know 'bout that. They 'd be too short. 
They wouldn't be near long enough! But Herman's 
would." 

Herman had recently been promoted to long trousers, and 
he expressed a strong disinclination to fall in with Pen- 
rod's idea. "No, suh! My mammy sit up late nights 
sewin' on 'ese britches fer me, makin' 'em outen of a pair o' 
pappy 's, an' they mighty good britches. Ain' goin' have 
no wet cat climbin' up 'em! No, suh!" 

"Oh, please, come on, Herman! You don't want to see 
the poor cat drown, do you ? ' ' 

"Mighty mean cat ! Bet' let 'at ole pussy-cat 'lone whur 
it is." 

"Listen here, Herman, you can watch us every minute 
thru the crack in the stable door, can't you? We ain't 
goin' to hurt 'em any, are we? You can see everything we 
do, can't you? Look at here, Herman: You know that 
little saw you just said you wished it was yours, in the 
carpenter shop? Well, honest, if you '11 just let us take 



Material for Interpretation 283 

your trousers till we get this poor ole cat out the cistern, I '11 
give you that little saw." 

"You gimme her to keep? You gimme her befo' I han' 
over my britches ?" 

"You '11 see!" Penrod ran into the stable, came back 
with the little saw, and placed it in Herman's hand. Her- 
man could resist no longer, and two minutes later he stood 
in the necessary negligee within the shelter of the stable 
door. 

But it seemed that Penrod 's inventive turn of mind had 
evolved some plan in connection with the imprisoned Gipsy, 
for he went to the stable and came running back with a 
large wooden box and announced his intention of making 
Gipsy a prisoner. He spoke mysteriously. 

"I got my reasons for wanting to keep this cat. I '11 
tell you some day. Listen to him! He's growlin' and 
spittin' away like anything. It takes a mighty fine blooded 
cat to be as fierce as that. I bet you most cats would 'a' 
given up and drowned long ago. ' ' 

Meanwhile, Herman, his brown legs exposed to the 

weather, was growing impatient, as he now reminded them, 

"Name o' goo 'n ess! I ain't got no time fer you all do 

so much talkin'. If you go' git 'at cat out, why n't you git 

him?" 

"Well, this is the way we '11 do. I '11 let you hold the 
trousers, Sam. You lay down and keep hold of one leg, 
and let the other one hang down till its end is in the water. 
Then you kind of swish it around till it 's somewheres where 
the cat can grab hold of it, and soon as he does, you pull it 
up, and be mighty careful so it don't fall off. Then I '11 
ketch hold of it and stick it in the box and slam the lid 
down." 



284 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Rather pleased to be assigned to the trousers, Sam accord- 
ingly extended himself at full length upon the slab and pro- 
ceeded to carry out Penrod 's instructions. 

"Can you see it, Sam? Why don't it ketch hold? 
What 's it doin' now, Sam?" 

"It 's spittin' at Herman's trousers. My gracious, but 
it 's a fierce cat ! Now it 's kind o ' sniffin ' at the trousers. 
It acks to me as if it was goin' to ketch hold. Yes, it 's 
stuck one claw in 'em — -Ow!" Sam uttered a blood-curd- 
ling shriek and jerked convulsively. The next instant, 
streaming and inconceivably gaunt, the ravening Gipsy ap- 
peared with a final bound upon Sam's shoulder. It was 
not in Gipsy 's character to be drawn up peaceably ; he had 
ascended the trousers and Sam 's arm without assistance and 
in his own way. Simultaneously there was a muffled, soggy 
splash, and the unfortunate Herman, smit with prophecy in 
his seclusion, uttered a dismal yell. Penrod laid hands 
upon Gipsy, and, after a struggle suggestive of sailors 
landing a man-eating shark, succeeded in getting him into 
the box, and sat upon the lid thereof. 

Sam had leaped to his feet, empty-handed and vociferous. 

"Ow, ow, ouch! Oh, what I care for your ole britches? 
I guess if you 'd a cat climb up you, you 'd 'a' dropped 
'em a hunderd times over ! ' ' 

Penrod, who was soothing a lacerated wrist in his mouth, 
remarked, 

"That 's a mighty fine blooded cat. I expect it 'd got 
away from pretty near anybody, 'specially if they didn't 
know much about cats. Listen to him, in the box, Sam. 
I bet you never heard a cat growl as loud as that in your 
life. I shouldn't wonder it was part panther or some- 
thing." 

Sam began to feel more interest and less resentment. 



Material for Interpretation 285 

"I tell you what we can do, Penrod. Let 's take it in 
the stable and make the box into a cage. We can take off 
the hinges, and slide back the lid a little at a time, and 
nail some o ' those laths over the front for bars. ' ' 

1 ' That 's just exackly what I was goin ' to say ! I al- 
ready thought o' that, Sam. Yessir, we '11 make it just 
like a reg'lar circus-cage, and our good ole cat can look 
out from between the bars and growl. It '11 come in pretty 
handy if we ever decide to have another show. Anyways, 
we '11 have her in there, good and tight, where we can 
watch she don't get away. I got a mighty good reason to 
keep this cat, Sam. You '11 see." 

Herman now broke in upon the plans with vehemence and 
refused to be diverted or mollified. He was evidently not 
a little worried as to his mammy's attitude when his loss 
should be divulged. 

"You white boys sutn'y show me bad day. I try treat 
people nice, 'n 'en they go th 'ow my britches down cistern ! ' ' 

i ' I did not ! That ole cat just kicked 'em out o ' my 
hand, with its hind feet, while its front ones were stickin ' 
in my arm. I bet you 'd of — " 

' ' Blame it on cat ! 'At 's nice ! Jes ' looky here minute : 
Who 'd I len' 'em britches to? D' I len' 'em britches to 
this here cat? No, suh; you know I didn'! You know 
well 's any man I len' 'em britches to you — an' you tuck 
an' th'owed 'em down cistern!" 

"Oh, please hush up about your old britches! I got to 
think how we 're goin' to fix our cage up right, and you 
make so much noise I can't get my mind on it. Anyways, 
did n 't I give you that little saw ? ' ' 

"Ii'l saw! Yes; an' this here li'l saw go' do me lot o' 
good when I got to go homel" 

"Why, it 's only across the alley to your house, Herman! 



286 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

That ain't anything at all to step over there, and you 've 
got your little saw." 

"Aw right! You jes' take off you' clo'es and step 'cross 
the alley. I give you li'l saw to carry!" 

Penrod had begun to work upon the cage. 

"Now listen here, Herman. If you '11 quit talkin' so 
much, and kind of get settled down or something, and help 
us fix a good cage for our panther, well? when mamma 
comes home about five o'clock, I '11 go and tell her there 's 
a poor boy got his britches burned up in a fire, and how 
he 's waitin' out in the stable for some, and I '11 tell her I 
promised him. Well, she '11 give me a pair I wore for 
summer ; honest she will, and you can put 'em on as quick 
as anything." 

' ' There, Herman, now you 're all right again ! ' ' 

Herman was not convinced, but he found himself at a dis- 
advantage in the argument. The question at issue seemed 
a vital one to him — yet his two opponents evidently con- 
sidered it of minor importance. Obviously, they felt that 
the promise for five o'clock had settled the whole matter 
conclusively, but to Herman this did not appear to be the 
fact. However, he helplessly suffered himself to be cajoled 
back into carpentry, though he was extremely ill at ease 
and talked a great deal of his misfortune. And, in spite of 
his half-hearted assistance and interest in the making of 
the cage and the fury of the inmate when it was completed 
and sticks were thrust between the bars to induce further 
spittings and outbursts of Gipsy's ferocious temper, Her- 
man's fears remained uppermost, nor were they un- 
grounded. During one of Gipsy's most banshee-like yells 
and while the boys were absorbed in observing his wrathful 
eyes and back, there came a sound of a report best symbol- 



Material for Interpretation 287 

ized by the statement that it was a whack. The recipient 
was Herman, and, outrageously surprised and pained, he 
turned to find himself face to face with a heavily-built 
colored woman who had approached the preoccupied boys 
from the rear. In her hand was a lath, and, even as Her- 
man turned, it was again wielded. 

"Mammy!" 

"Yes; you bettuh holler, 'Mammy!' My goo'ness, if yo' 
pappy don ' lam you to-night ! Whah you britches ? ' ' 

Even in this crisis, Herman would not implicate a com- 
rade. Choking, he answered bravely, 

1 ' 'At ole cat tuck an ' th 'owed 'em down cistern ! ' ' 

Whack! 

^Exasperated almost beyond endurance, she lifted the lath 
again. But unfortunately, in order to obtain a better field 
of action, she moved backward a little, coming in contact 
with the bars of the cage, a circumstance which she over- 
looked. More unfortunately still, the longing of the cap- 
tive to express his feelings was such that he would have 
welcomed the opportunity to attack an elephant. He had 
been striking and scratching at inanimate things and at 
boys out of reach for the past hour, but here at last was his 
opportunity. He made the most of it. 

MI learn you tell me cat th'owed — ooooh!" 

The colored woman leaped into the air like an athlete, 
and, turning with a swiftness astounding in one of her 
weight, beheld the semaphoric arm of Gipsy again extended 
between the bars and hopefully reaching for her. B-side - 
herself, she lifted her right foot briskly from the ground, 
and allowed the sole of her shoe to come in contact with 
Gipsy's cage. The bars dissolved as by magic and it burst 
asunder and disgorged a large, brused, and chastened cat. 



288 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Gipsy paused and bent one strange look upon the broken 
box, then darted up the alley, the two boys watching him, 
dismay in their faces. 

A harrowing procession issued from the carriage-house. 
Herman came first, a little reluctant, but urged by a sharp, 
fleshly sound and some inspiriting words from the rear. 
He crossed the alley hastily, and his mammy stalked behind, 
using constant eloquence and a frequent lath. They went 
into the small house across the way and closed the door. 

Then Sam turned to Penrod. 

"Penrod, why was it you wanted to keep that cat?" 

"Well, that was a mighty fine blooded cat. We 'd of 
made some money. ' ' 

Sam jeered. 

"You mean when we 'd sell tickets to look at it in its 
cage?" 

Penrod shook his head, and if Gipsy could have over- 
heard and understood his reply, his spirit, almost broken by 
the events of the day, might have considered this last blow 
the most overwhelming of all. 

"No," said Penrod, "when she had kittens." 

Booth Tarkington. 

Arranged by Gertrude E. Johnson. 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE 

' ' She said that she would dance with me if I brought her 
red roses, but in all my garden there is no red rose," cried 
the young Student. 

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard 
him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered. 

i ' No red rose in all my garden ! Ah, on what little things 



Material for Interpretation 289 

does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise 
men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are 
mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched." 

' ' Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. 
" Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him 
not; night after night have I told his story to the stars, 
and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blos- 
som, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire ; but pas- 
sion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set 
her seal upon his brow. ' ' 

1 ' The Prince gives a ball tomorrow night and my love will 
be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance 
with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold 
her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoul- 
der, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no 
red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will 
pass me by. She will have no hped of me, and my heart 
will break/ ' and he flung himself down on the grass, and 
buried his face in his hands, and wept. 

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. 
"What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is 
pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more pre- 
cious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls 
and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the 
market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, 
nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold." 

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as 
he ran past him with his tail in the air. 

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering 
about after a sunbeam. 

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in 
a soft, low voice. 

"He is weeping for a red rose, ' ' said the Nightingale. 



290 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"For a red rose! How very ridiculous!'' and the little 
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright. 

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Stu- 
dent's sorrow, and she sat silent in the Oak-tree, and 
thought about the mystery of Love. 

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and 
soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a 
shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. 

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful 
Eose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit 
upon a spray. 

"Give me a red rose, and I will sing you my sweetest 
song," she cried. 

But the Tree shook its head. 

"My roses are white, as white as the foam of the sea, and 
whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my 
brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he 
will give you what you want. ' [ 

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was 
growing round the old sun-dial. 

' i Give me a red rose, ' ' she cried, ' ' and I will sing you my 
sweetest song." 

But the Tree shook its head. 

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the 
hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and 
yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow be- 
fore the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my 
brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and 
perhaps he will give you what you want." 

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was 
growing beneath the Student's window. 

"Give me a red rose, and I will sing you my sweetest 
song," she cried. 



Material for Interpretation 291 

But the Tree shook its head. 

"My roses are red, as red as the feet of the dove, and 
redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in 
the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, 
and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken 
my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year. " 

' * One red rose is all I want, only one red rose ! Is there 
no way by which I can get it?" 

' ' There is a way, ' ' answered the Tree ; ' ' but it is so ter- 
rible that I dare not tell it to you." 

' ' Tell it to me, I am not afraid, ' ' said the Nightingale. 

"If you want a red rose, you must build it out of music 
by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart 's-blood. 
You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All 
night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce 
your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, 
and become mine. ' ' 

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried 
the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleas- 
ant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his 
chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. 
Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the blue- 
bells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on 
the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the 
heart of a bird compared to th£ heart of a man ? ' ' 

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into 
the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like 
a shadow she sailed through the grove to the young Student 
who was still lying on the grass where she had left him. 

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall 
have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moon- 
light, and stain it with my own heart 's-blood. All that I 
ask for you in return is that you will be a true lover, for 



292 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and 
mightier than Power, though he is mighty. 

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but 
he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying 
to him, for he only knew the things that are written down 
in books. 

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was 
fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his 
branches. 

• ' Sing me one last song ; I shall feel very lonely when you 
are gone," he whispered. 

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice 
was like water bubbling from a silver jar. 

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and 
pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. 

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away 
through the grove — "that cannot be denied to her; but has 
she got feeling ? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most 
artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would 
not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, 
and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it 
must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her 
voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, 
or do any practical good/' And he went into his room, and 
lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his 
love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. 



And when the moon shone in the heavens, the Nightin- 
gale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the 
thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the 
thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. 
All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and 



Material for Interpretation 293 

deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from 
her. 

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy 
and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there 
blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song 
followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs 
over the river — pale as the feet of the morning, and silver 
as the wings of the dawn. 

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer 
against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale, or the 
Day will come before the rose is finished." 

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and 
louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth 
of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. 

And a delicate flush came into the leaves of the rose. 
But thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart 
remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart 's-blood can 
crimson the heart of a rose. 

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer 
against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale, or the 
Day will come before the rose is finished." 

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and 
the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot 
through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and 
wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is 
perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. 

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of 
the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and 
crimson as a ruby was the heart. 

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little 
wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter 
and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking 
her in her throat. 



294 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon 
heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the 
sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with 
ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. 
Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke 
the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated 
through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message 
to the sea. 

1 i Look ! ' ' cried the Tree, ' ' look, the rose is finished now ; ' ' 
but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead 
in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. 

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked 
out. 

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck !" he cried; "here 
is a red rose ! I have never seen a::y rose like it in all my 
life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin 
name;" and he leaned down and plucked it. 

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's 
house with the rose in his hand. 

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway 
winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at 
her feet. 

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought 
you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest 
rose in all the world. You will wear it tonight next your 
heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I 
love you." 

But the girl frowned as she answered: "I am afraid it 
will not go with my dress and, besides, the Chamberlain's 
nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows 
that jewels cost far more than flowers." 

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said 



Material for Interpretation 295 

the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, 
where it fell into the gutter, and a cartwheel went over it. 

" Ungrateful I" said the girl. "Ungrateful,— well, I tell 
you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? 
Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got 
silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew 
has;" and she got up from her chair and went into the 
house. 

"What a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he 
walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does 
not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things 
that are not going to happen, and making one believe things 
that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as 
in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to 
Philosophy and study Metaphysics." 

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty 
book, and began to read. 

Oscar Wilde. 



UNDERNEATH THE HIGH-CUT VEST 1 

We all carry with us into the one-night-stand country 
called Sleepland, a practical working nightmare that we us. 1 
again and again, no matter how varied the theme or setting 
of our dream-drama. The surgeon, the civil engineer, the 
stage favorite has each his or her particular nightmare of 
elusive appendices, falling bridges, and one-night-stands. 
But when he who sells goods on the road groans and tosses 
in the clutches of a dreadful dream, it is, strangely enough, 
never of canceled orders, maniacal train schedules, lumpy 
mattresses, or vilely cooked food. No — his nightmare is 

i All dramatic rights reserved. 



296 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

always a vision of himself, sick on the road, at a country 
hotel in the middle of a Spring season. 

Thru six weeks of growing lassitude and chills, Mrs. 
Emma McChesney, representing T. A. Buck's Featherloom 
Petticoats, succeeded in attending to the day's business, but 
on the seventh, as she made a last effort to order her brain 
into its usual sane clearness, she failed, and saw the coarse 
white tablecloth rising swiftly and slantingly to meet her 
head. 

It speaks well for Emma McChesney 's balance that when 
she found herself in bed, two strange women, and one 
strange man, and an all-too-familiar bell-boy in the room, 
she did not say, " Where am I? What happened?" In- 
stead, she at once addressed the unbelievably handsome 
man bending over her with a stethoscope. 

"Look here! I can't be sick, young man. Haven't 
time. Not just now. Put it off until August and I '11 be 
as sick as you like. Why, man, this is the middle of June, 
and I 'm due in Minneapolis now." 

"Lie down, please. This can't be put off until August. 
You 're sick right now." 

"How sick?." 

"Oh, it won't be so bad." 

Emma McChesney sat up in bed with a jerk. "You 
mean — sick! Not ill, or grippy, or run down, but sick! 
Trained-nurse sick ! Hospital sick ! Doctor-twice-a-day 
sick ! Table-by-the-bedside-with-bottles-on-it sick ! ' ' 

"Well— a—" 

' ' Never mind, I know. ' ' She looked at the faces of these 
strangers, the plump bleached blonde, the hotel house- 
keeper, the lank waitress, and the doctor. Sympathy — real, 
human sympathy — was uppermost in each. She smiled a 



Material for Interpretation 297 

faint and friendly little smile at the group. And at that 
t lie housekeeper began tucking in the covers at the foot 
of the bed, and the lank waitress walked to the window and 
pulled down the shade, and the bell-boy muttered something 
about ice-water. The doctor patted her wrist lightly and 
reassuringly. 

" You 're all awfully good. I 've something to say. It 's 
just this. If I 'm going to be sick I 'd prefer to be sick 
right here, unless it 's something catching. No hospital. 
Don't ask me why. I don't know. We people on the road 
are all alike. "Wire T. A. Buck, Junior, of the Featherloom 
Petticoat Company, New York. You '11 find plenty of clean 
nightgowns in the left-hand tray of my trunk, covered with 
white tissue paper. Get a nurse that doesn't talk about 
the palace she nursed in last, where they waited on her hand 
and foot. For goodness' sake put my switch where noth- 
ing will happen to it, and if I die and they run my picture 
in the 'Dry Goods Review' under the caption, ' Veteran 
Traveling Saleswoman Succumbs at Glen Rock,' I '11 haunt 
the editor." 

"Everything will be all right," said the housekeeper. 
: 'You '11 think you 're right at home, it '11 be so comfort- 
able. Was there anything else, now?" 

"Yes. The most important of all. My son, Jock Mc- 
Chesney, is fishing up in the Canadian woods. A telegram 
may not reach him for three weeks. The} T 're shifting about 
from camp to camp. Try to get him, but don't scare him 
too much. You '11 find the address under J. in my address 
book in my handbag. Poor kid. Perhaps it 's just as well 
he does n ? t know. ' ' 

Perhaps it was. At any rate it was true that had the tribe 
of MeChesney been as the leaves of the trees and had it 
held a family reunion in Emma MeChesney 's little hotel 



298 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

bedroom it would have mattered not at all to her. For she 
was sick — doctor-three-times-a-day-trained-nurse-bottles-by- 
the-bedside sick, her head, with its bright hair rumpled and 
dry with the fever, tossing from side to side on the lumpty 
hotel pillow, or lying terribly silent and inert against the 
gray-white of the bed linen. She never quite knew how nar- 
rowly she escaped that picture in the ' ' Dry Goods Review. ' ' 

Then one day the fever began to recede, slowly, whence 
fevers come, and the indefinable air of suspense and repres- 
sion that lingers about a sick-room at such a crisis began to 
lift imperceptibly. There came a time when Emma Mc- 
Chesney asked in a weak but sane voice : 

"Did Jock come? Did they cut off my hair ? " 

"Not yet, dear," the nurse had answered to the first, "but 
we 11 hear in a day or so, I 'm sure. " And, "Your lovely 
hair! Well, not if I know it!" to the second. 

Soups and broths and flowers were ever in evidence. 
Magazines in abundance and more flowers from every travel- 
ing man who stopped at the little hotel on the way to Min- 
neapolis. And frequent telegrams from T. A. Buck, Jr., 
all bore the same sentiment — "Spare no expense, let noth- 
ing be left undone. ' ' 

So Emma McChesney climbed the long, weary hill of ill- 
ness and pain, reached the top, panting and almost spent, 
rested there, and began the easy descent on the other side 
that led to recovery and strength. But something was lack- 
ing. That sunny optimism that had been Emma McChes- 
ney 's most valuable asset was absent. Even the advent of 
Fat Ed Meyers, her keenest competitor, and representative 
of the Strauss Sanssilk Skirt Company, failed to awaken in 
her the proper spirit of antagonism. Fat Ed Meyers sent a 
bunch of violets that devastated the violet beds at the local 
greenhouse. Emma McChesney regarded them listlessly 



Material for Interpretation 299 

when the nurse lifted them out of their tissue wrappings. 
But the name-card brought a tiny smile to her lips. 

"He says he 'd like to see you, if you feel able," said 
Miss Haney, the nurse. 

"Well, tell him to come up." 

A faint gleam of the old humor lighted up her face when 
Fat Ed Meyers painfully tiptoed in, brown derby in hand, 
his red face properly doleful, brown shoes squeaking. His 
figure loomed mountainous in a light-brown summer suit. 

"Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Couldn't you find 
anything better to do in the middle of the season? Say, on 
the square, girlie, I 'm dead sorry. Hard luck ! ' ' 

"It was sweet of you to send all those violets, Mr. Meyers. 
I hope you 're not disappointed that they couldn't have 
worked in the form of a pillow, with ' At Kest' done in white 
curly cues." 

"Mrs. McChesney ! You and I may have had a word, now 
and then, and I will say that you dealt me a couple of low- 
down tricks on the road, but that 's all in the game. I 
never held it up against you. Say, nobody ever admired 
you or appreciated you more than I did — " 

"Look out! You 're speaking in the past tense. Please 
don 't. It makes me nervous. ' ' 

Ed Meyers laughed, uncomfortably, and glanced yearn- 
ingly toward the door. He seemed at loss to account for 
something he failed to find in the manner and conversation 
of Mrs. McChesney. 

"Son here with you, I suppose." 

Emma McChesney closed her eyes. The little room be- 
came very still. In a panic Ed Meyers looked helplessly 
from the white face, with its hollow cheeks and closed eye- 
lids to the nurse who sat at the window. That discreet dam- 
sel put her finger swiftly to her lips, and shook her head. 



300 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Ed Meyers rose, hastily, his face a shade redder than usual. 

"Well, I guess I gotta be running along. I 'm tickled 
to death to find you looking so fat and sassy. I got an 
idea you were just stalling for a rest, that 's all. Say, Mrs. 
McChesney, there 's a swell little dame in the house named 
Riordon. She 's on the road, too. I don't know what her 
line is, but she 's a friendly kid, with a bunch of talk. A 
woman always likes to have another woman fussin' around 
when she 's sick. I told her about you* and how I 'd bet 
you 'd be crazy to get a chance to talk shop and Feather- 
looms again. I guess you ain't lost your interest in Feather- 
looms, eh, what ? ' ' 

Emma McChesney 's face indicated not the faintest knowl- 
edge of Featherloom petticoats. Ed Meyers stared, aghast. 
And as he stared there came a little knock at the door — a 
series of staccato raps, with feminine knuckles back of 
them. The nurse went to the door, disapproval on her face. 
At the turning of the knob there bounced into the room a 
vision in an Alice-blue suit, plumes to match, peafl earrings, 
elaborate coiffure of reddish-gold and a complexion that 
showed an unbelievable trust in the credulity of mankind. 

' ' How-do, dearie ! ' ' exclaimed the vision. ' ' You poor kid, 
you ! I heard you was sick, and I says, ' I 'm going up to 
cheer her up if I have to miss my train out to do it. ' Say, 
I was laid up two years ago in Idaho Falls, Idaho, and be- 
lieve me, I '11 never forget it. I don 't know how sick I was, 
but I don't even want to remember how lonesome I was. 
I just clung to the chamber-maid like she was my own sis- 
ter. If your nurse wants to go out for an airing I '11 sit 
with you. Glad to. ' ' 

Miss Haney, the nurse, was already preparing to go out. 
It was her regular hour for exercise. Mrs. McChesney 
watched her go with a sinking heart. 



Material for Interpretation 301 

"Now! we girls can have a real, old-fashioned talk. A 
nurse isn't human. The one I had in Idaho Falls was 
strictly prophylactic, and antiseptic, and she certainly could 
give the swell alcohol rubs, but you can't get chummy with 
a human disinfectant. Your line 's skirts, is n't it?" 

"Yes." * 

"Land, I Ve heard an awful lot about you. The boys 
on the road certainly speak something grand of you. I 'm 
really jealous. Say, I 'd love to show you some of my sam- 
ples for this season. They 're just great. I 11 just run 
down the hall to my room — " 

She was gone. Emma McChesney shut her eyes, wearily. 
Her nerves were twitching. Her thoughts were far, far 
away from samples and sample cases. So he had turned out 
to be his worthless father's son after all. He must have 
got some news of her by now. And he ignored it. He 
was content to amuse himself up there in the Canadian 
woods, while his mother — 

Miss Riordon, flushed, and panting a little, burst into 
the room again, sample case in hand. Mrs. McChesney sat 
up on one elbow as Miss Riordon tugged at the sample-case 
cover. Then she leaned forward, interested in spite of her- 
self at the pile of sheer, white, exquisitely embroidered and 
lacy garments that lay disclosed as the cover fell back. 

"Oh, lingerie ! That 's an ideal line for a woman. Let 's 
see the yoke in that first nightgown. It 's a really won- 
derful design." 

Miss Riordon laughed and shook out the folds of the top- 
most garment. "Nightgown! Take another look." 

"Why, what—" 

"Shrouds!" 

"Shrouds?" 

"Beautiful, ain't they? They 're .the very newest thing. 



302 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

You '11 notice they 're' made up slightly hobble, with a 
French back, and high waist-line in the front. Last season 
kimono sleeves were all the go, but they 're not used this 
season. This one 's — " 

"Take them away! Take them away!" And Mrs. Mc- 
Chesney buried her face in her trembling white hands. 

Miss Riordon stared. Then she slammed the cover of the 
case, rose, and started toward the door. But before she 
reached it, and while the sick woman's sobs were still 
sounding hysterically the door flew open to admit a tall, 
slim, miraculously well-dressed young man. The next in- 
stant Emma McChesney's lace nightgown was crushed 
against the top of a correctly high-cut vest, and her tears 
coursed, unmolested, down the folds of an exquisitely shaded 
lavender silk necktie. 

"Jock! Oh, my son, my son, my beautiful boy!" like a 
woman in a play. 

Jock was holding her tight, and patting her shoulder, 
and pressing his healthy, glowing cheek close to hers that 
was so gaunt and pale. 

"I got seven wires, all at the same time. They 'd been 
chasing me for days, up there in the woods. I thought I 'd 
never get here. ' ' 

And at that a wonderful thing happened to Emma Mc- 
Chesney. She lifted her face, and showed dimples where 
lines had been, smiles where tears had coursed, a glow 
where there had been a grayish pallor. She leaned back a 
bit to survey this son of hers. But Jock McChesney was 
not smiling. He glanced around the stuffy little hotel room. 
It looked stuffier and drearier than ever in contrast with 
his radiant youth, his glowing freshness, his outdoor tan, 
his immaculate attire. 

"It wasn't so bad, Jock. Now that you 're here, it 's 



Material for Interpretation 303 

all right. Jock, I didn't realize just what you meant to 
me until you did n 't come. I did n 't realize — ' ' 

"And I 've been fishing. I 've been sprawling under a 
tree in front of a darned fool stream and wondering whether 
to fry 'em for lunch now, or to put my hat over my eyes 
and fall asleep." 

His mother reached up and patted his shoulder. But 
the line around Jock's jaw did not soften. He turned his 
head to gaze down at his mother. 

Then he got up, strode to the window, and came back to 
the bed. Both hands thrust deep in his pockets, he said, 

"Mother, I 'm eighteen years old. And I look twenty- 
three, and act twenty-five — when I 'm with twenty-five- 
year-olds. I 've been as much help and comfort to you up 
to now as a pet alligator. You 've always said that I was 
to go to college, and I 've sort of trained myself to believe 
I was. Well, I 'm not. I want to get into business, with a 
capital B. And I want to jump in now. This minute. 
I 've started out to be a first-class slob, with you keeping 
me in pocket money, and clothes, and the Lprd knows what 
all. I used to think that I wanted to get into one of the 
professions. Professions ! You talk about the romance of 
a civil engineer's life! Why, to be a successful business 
man these days you 've got to be a buccaneer, and a diplo- 
mat, and a detective, and a clairvoyant, and an expert math- 
ematician, and a wizard. Business — just plain everyday 
business — is the gamiest, chanciest, most thrilling line there 
is to-day, and I 'm for it. Let the other guy hang out his 
shingle and wait for 'em. I 'm going out and get mine." 

He stopped abruptly. Emma McChesney regarded him, 
eyes glowing. She lay with her head against her boy's 
breast for a while. Then she spoke what was in her sane, 
far-seeing mind. 



304 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

" Jock, if I 've ever wished you were a girl, I take it all 
back now. I 'd rather have heard what you just said than 
any piece of unbelievable good fortune in the world. But, 
Jock, you 're going to college. No — wait a minute. You '11 
have a chance to prove the things you just said by getting 
thru in three years instead of the usual four. If you 're in 
earnest you can do it. I want my boy to start into this 
business war equipped with every means of defense. You 
called it a game. It 's more than that — it 's a battle. 
You could get a job now. Not much of a position, perhaps, 
but something self-respecting and fairly well-paying. It 
would teach you many things. You might get a knowledge 
of human nature that no college could give you. But 
there 's something — poise — self-confidence — assurance — that 
nothing but college can give you. You will find yourself in 
those three years. ' ' 

"But, mother, you don't understand just why—" 

"Yes, dear 'un, I do. After all, remember you 're only 
eighteen. You '11 probably spend part of your time rush- 
ing around at class proms with a red ribbon in your coat 
lapel to show you 're on the floor committee. And you '11 
be girl-fussing, too. But you 'd be attracted to girls, in or 
out of college, and I 'd rather, just now, that it would be 
some pretty, nice-thinking college girl in a white sweater 
and a blue serge skirt." 

Jock sat silent, his face grave with thought. "But when 
I 'm earning money — real money — it 's off the road for 
you, ' ' he said, at last. 

"Um m — m — ye-ee-es. Now, open the closet door and 

pull out that big sample case to the side of my bed. The 
newest Fall Featherlooms are in it, and somehow, I 've just 
a whimsy notion that I 'd like to look 'em over. ' ' 

Edna Ferber. 

Arranged by Gertrude K Johnson. 



Material for Interpretation 305 

GEORGE MEREDITH 

All morning there had been a little gathering of people 
outside the gate. It was the day on which Mr. Meredith 
was to be, as they say, buried. He had been, as they say, 
cremated. The funeral coach came, and a very small thing 
was placed in it and covered with flowers. One plant of 
the wall-flower in the garden would have covered it. The 
coach, followed by a few others, took the road to Dorking, 
where, in familiar phrase, the funeral was to be, and in a 
moment or two all seemed silent and deserted, the cottage, 
the garden, and Box Hill. ^ 

The cottage was not deserted, as They knew who now 
trooped into the round in front of it, their eyes on the closed 
door. They w r ere the mighty company, his children, Lucy 
and Clara and Rhoda and Diana and Rose and old Mel 
and Roy Richmond and Adrian and Sir Willoughby and a 
hundred others, and they stood in line against the box-wood, 
waiting for him to come out. Each of his proud women 
carried a flower, and the hands of all his men were ready for 
the salute. 

In the room on the right, in an armchair which had been 
his home for years — to many the throne of letters in this 
country — sat an old man, like one forgotten in an empty 
house. When the last sound o-f the coaches had passed 
away he moved in his chair. He wore gray clothes and a 
red tie, and his face was rarely beautiful, but the hair was 
white and the limbs were feeble, and the wonderful eyes 
dimmed, and he was hard of hearing. He moved in his 
chair, for something was happening to him, and it was 
this, old age was falling from him. This is what is meant 
by Death to such as he, and the company awaiting knew. 



306 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

His eyes became again those of the eagle, and his hair was 
brown, and the lustiness of youth was in his frame, but 
still he wore the red tie. He rose, and not a moment did he 
remain within the house, for "golden lie the meadows, 
golden run the streams/' and "the fields and the waters 
shout to him golden shouts. " He flung open the door, as 
They knew he would do who were awaiting him, and he 
stood there looking at them, a general, reviewing his troops. 
They wore the pretty clothing in which he had loved to 
drape them ; they were not sad like the mourners who had 
gone, but happy as the forget-me-nots and pansies at their 
feet and the lilac overhead, for they knew that this was his 
coronation day. Only one was airily in mourning, as know- 
ing better than the others what fitted the occasion, the 
Countess de S.aldar. He recognized her sense of the fitness 
of things with a smile and a bow. The men saluted, the 
women gave their flowers to Dahlia to give to him, so that 
she, being the most unhappy and therefore by him the most 
beloved, should have his last word, and he took their offer- 
ings and passed on. They did not go with him, these, his 
splended progeny, the ladies of the future, they went their 
ways to tell the whole earth of the new world, for women, 
which he had been the first, to foresee. 

Without knowing why, for his work was done, he turned 
to the left, passing his famous cherry-blossom, and climbed 
between apple-trees to a little house of two rooms, whence 
most of that noble company had sprung. It was the chalet, 
where he worked, and good and brave men will for ever bow 
proudly before it, but good and brave women will bow 
more proudly still. He went there only because he had 
gone so often, and this time the door was locked; and he 
did not know why, nor care. He came swinging down the 
path, singing lustily, and calling to his dogs, his dogs of the 



Material for Interpretation 307 

present and the past; and they yelped with joy, for they 
knew they were once again to breast the hill with him. 

He strode up the hill whirling his staff, for which he had 
no longer any other use. His hearing was again so acute 
that from far away on the Dorking road he could hear the 
rumbling of a coach. It had been disputed whether he 
should be buried in "Westminster Abbey or in a quiet 
churchyard, and there came to him somehow a knowledge 
(it was the last he ever knew of little things) that people 
had been at variance as to whether a casket of dust should 
be laid away in one hole or in another, and he flung back 
his head with the old glorious action, and laughed a laugh 
" broad as a thousand beeves at pasture." 

Box Hill was no longer deserted. When a great man dies 
— and this was one of the greatest since Shakespeare — the 
immortals await him at the top of the nearest hill. He 
looked up and saw his peers. They were all young, like 
himself. He waved the staff in greeting. One, a mere 
stripling, "slight unspeakably," R. L. S., detached himself 
from the others, crying gloriously, "Here 's the fellow I 
have been telling you about!" and ran down the hill to be 
the first to take his Master's hand. In the meanwhile an 
empty coach was rolling on to Dorking. 

J. M. Barrie. 



THE ARTIST'S SECRET 

Therb was an artist once, and he painted a picture. 
Other artists had colors richer and rarer, and painted more 
notable pictures. He painted his with one color ; there was 
a wonderful red glow on it; and the people went up and 
down saying, "We like the picture; we like the glow." 



308 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The other artists came and said, "Where does he get his 
color from ? ' ' They asked him, and he smiled and said, * ' I 
cannot tell you"; and worked on with his head bent low. 

And one went to the far East and bought costly pigments, 
and made a rare color and painted, but after a time the pic- 
ture faded. Another read in the old books, and made a 
color rich and rare, but when he had put it on the picture it 
was dead. 

But the artist painted' on. Always the work got redder 
and redder, and the artist grew whiter and whiter. At 
last one day they found him dead before his picture, and 
they took him up to bury him. The other men looked about 
in all the pots and crucibles, but they found nothing they 
had not. 

And when they undressed him to put his grave-clothes on 
him they found above his left breast the mark of a wound — 
it was an old, old wound, that must have been there all his 
life, for the edges were old and hardened ; but Death, who 
seals all things, had drawn the edges together and closed 
it up. 

And they buried him. And still the people went about 
saying, "Where did he find his color from?" 

And it came to pass that after a while the artist was 
forgotten, but the work lived. 

Olive Schreiner. 



SECTION V 
SPEECHES PROM SHAKESPEARE 



SECTION V 

SPEECHES FROM SHAKESPEARE 

KING HENRY 

K. Henry. My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin 

If we are mark 'd to die, we are enow 

To do our country loss ; and if to live, 

The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 

God 's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, 

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 

Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 

But if it be a sin to covet honour, 

I am the most offending soul alive. 

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: 

God 's peace ! I would not lose so great an honour 

As one man more, methinks, would share from me 

For the best hope I have. 0, do not wish one more ! 

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 

That he which hath no stomach to this fight, 

Let him depart; his passport shall be made 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse : 

We would not die in that man's company 

That fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian: 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 

311 



312 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

"Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named, 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall live this day, and see old age, 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 

And say, "To-morrow is Saint Crispin's day." 

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 

And say, ' ' These wounds I had on Crispin 's day. ' ? 

Old men forget ; yet all shall be forgot, 

But he '11 remember with advantages 

What feats he did that day : then shall our names, 

Familiar in his mouth as household words, 

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember 'd. 

This story shall the good man teach his son ; 

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remembered ; 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ; 

For he to-day 4hat sheds his blood with me 

Shall be my brother ; be he ne 'er so vile, 

This day shall gentle his condition: 

And gentlemen in England now a-bed 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 

That fought with us upon Saiijt Crispin's day. 

King Henry V. Act IV. — Scene III. 



HERMIONE 

Hermione. Since what I am to say must be but that 
Which contradicts my accusation, and 



Material for Interpretation 313 

The testimony on my part no other 

But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me 

To say "not guilty": mine integrity 

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, 

Be so received. But thus: if powers divine 

Behold our human actions, as they do, 

I doubt not then but innocence shall make 

False accusation blush and tyranny 

Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, 

Who least will seem to do so, my past life 

Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, 

As I am now unhappy ; which is more 

Than history can pattern, though devised 

And play'd to take spectators. For behold me 

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 

A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter, 

The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing 

To prate and talk for life and honor 'fore 

Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it 

As I weigh grief, which I would spare : for honor, 

'T is a derivative from me to mine, 

And only that I stand for. I appeal 

To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes 

Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 

How merited to be so ; since he came, 

With what encounter so uncurrent I 

Have strain 'd to appear thus: if one jot beyond 

The bound of honor, or in act or will 

That way inclining, harden 'd be the hearts 

Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin 

Cry fie upon my grave ! 

The Winter's Tale. Act III.— Scene II. 



314 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

QUEEN MARGARET 

Q. Mar. I call 'd thee then vain flourish of my fortune ; 

I call 'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen ; 

The presentation of but what I was ; 

The flattering index of a direful pageant : 

One heaved a-high, to be hurl'd down below; 

A mother only mock'd with two sweet babes; 

A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble, 

A sign of dignity, a garish flag, 

To be the aim of every dangerous shot ; 

A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. 

Where is thy husband now ? where be thy brothers ? 

Where are thy children? wherein dost thou joy? 

Who sues to thee and cries ' ' God save the queen ' ' ? 

Where be the bending peers that flatter 'd thee? 

Where be the thronging troops that follow 'd thee? 

Decline all this, and see what now thou art : 

For happy wife, a most distressed widow ; 

For joyful mother, one that wails the name ; 

For queen, a very caitiff crown 'd with care ; 

For one being sued to, one that humbly sues ; 

For one that scorn 'd at me, now scorn 'd of me; 

For one being fear 'd of all, now fearing one ; 

For one commanding all, obey'd of none. 

Thus hath the course of justice wheel'd about, 

And left thee but a very prey to time : 

Having no more but thought of what thou wert, 

To torture thee the more, being what thou art. 

Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not 

Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow? 

Now thy proud neck bears half my burthen 'd yoke, 



Material for Interpretation *15 

From which even here I slip my weary neck, 
And leave the burthen of it all on thee. 
Farewell, York 's wife, and queen of sad mischance : 
These English woes will make me smile :n France. 

From King Richard HI. Act i V.- -Scene IV. 



MERCUTIO 

Mercutio. 0, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. 

She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone 

On the fore-finger of an alderman, 

Drawn with a team of little Atomies 

Athwart men 's noses as they lie asleep ; 

Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs, 

The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, 

The traces of the smallest spider's web, 

The collars of the moonshine 's watery beams, 

Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film, 

Her wagoner a small gray-coated gnat, 

Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut 

Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, 

Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. 

And in this state she gallops night by night 

Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; 

O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court 'sies straight, 

'er lawyers ' fingers, who straight dream on fees, 

'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream, 

Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, 

And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : 

And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail 

Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, 



316 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, 
Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon 
Drams in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, 
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two 
And sleeps again. 

Romeo and Juliet. Act I. — Scene IV. 



JAQUES 

Jaques. A fool, a fool ! I met a fool i ' the forest, 

A motley fool ; a miserable world ! 

As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 

And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, 

In good set terms and yet a motley fool, 

"Good morrow, fool," quoth I. "No, sir," quoth he, 

' ' Call me not fool till heaven hath send me fortune : 

And then he drew a dial from his poke, 

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 

Says very wisely, "It is ten o'clock: 

Thus we may see," quoth he, "how the world wags: 

'T is but an hour ago since it was nine, 

And after one hour more, ? t will be eleven ; 

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot ; 

And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear 

The motley fool thus moral on the time, 

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 

That fools should be so deep-contemplative, 

And I did laugh sans intermission 



Material for Interpretation 317 

An hour by his dial. noble fool ! 

A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear. 

As You Like It. Act II. — Scene VII. 



BRUTUS 

Brutus. It must be by his death : and for my part, 

I know no personal cause to spurn at him, 

But for the general. He would be crown 'd: 

How that might change his nature, there 's the question. 

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder ; 

And that craves wary walking. Crown him ? — that ; — 

And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, 

That at his will he may do danger with. 

The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins 

Remorse from power : and, to speak truth of Caesar, 

I have not known when his affections sway'd 

More than his reason. But 't is common proof 

That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, 

Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; 

But when he once attains the utmost round, 

He then unto the ladder turns his back, 

Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 

By which he did ascend. So Caesar may. 

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel 

Will bear no color for the thing he is, 

Fashion it thus ; that what he is, augmented, 

Would run to these and these extremities: 

And therefore think him as a serpent's egg 

Which hatch 'd would, as his kind, grow mischievous, 

And kill him m the shell. 

Julius Ccesar. Act II. — Scene I. 



318 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

BENEDICK 

Benedick. I do much wonder that one man, seeing how 
much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors 
to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies 
in others, become the argument of his won scorn by falling 
in love : and such a man is Claudio. I have known when 
there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; 
and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe ; I have 
known when he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see 
a good armor; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving 
the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain 
and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier ; and 
now is he turned orthographer ; his words are a very fan- 
tastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so 
converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think 
not : I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an 
oyster; but I '11 take my oath on it, till he have made an 
oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One 
woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am 
well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces 
be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. 
Rich she shall be, that 's certain; wise, or I 11 none; 
virtuous, or I '11 never cheapen her ; fair, or I 11 never look 
on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an 
angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair 
shall be of what color it please God. Ha! the prince and 
Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbor. 

Much Ado About Nothing. Act II. — Scene III. 



Material for Interpretation SI 9 

HOTSPUR 

My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 

But I remember, when the fight was done, 

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 

Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress 'd, 

Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin new reap 'd 

Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home; 

He was perfumed like a milliner ; 

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held 

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 

He gave his nose and took 't away again ; 

Who therewith angry, when it next came there, 

Took it in snuff; and still he smiled and talk'd, 

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, 

He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly, 

To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 

Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 

With many holiday and lady terms 

He question 'd me ; amongst the rest, demanded 

My prisoners in your majesty's behalf. 

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, 

To be so pester 'd with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief and my impatience, 

Answer 'd neglectingly I know not what, 

He should, or he should not ; for he made me mad 

To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet 

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman 

Of guns and drums and wounds, — God save the mark ! — 

And telling me the sovereign 'st thing on earth 

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; 



320 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

And that it was great pity, so it was, 
This villainous salt-petre should be digg'd 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy 'd 
So cowardly; and but for these vile guns, 
He would himself have been a soldier. 
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
I answer 'd indirectly, as I said; 
And I beseech you, let not his report 
Come current for an accusation 
Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 

King Henry IV. Act L— Scene III. 



SECTION VI 
SCENES AND ONE-ACT PLAYS 



SECTION VI 
SCENES AND ONE-ACT PLAYS 

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 

Act 2, Scene 1 

(A room in Sir Peter Teazle's house. Enter Sir Peter 
and Lady Teazle.) 

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 not bear it ! 

Lady Teazle. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or 
not, as yon please; but I ought to have my own way in 
everything, and what 's more, I will too. What though I 
was educated in the country, I know very well that women 
of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they 
are married. 

Sir Peter. Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband 
is to have no influence, no authority. 

Lady Teazle. Authority ! No, to be sure ; if you wanted 
authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not 
married me ; I am sure you were old enough. 

Sir Peter. Old enough ! ay — there it is. Well, well. 
Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your 
temper, I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance. 

Lady Teazle. My extravagance ! I 'm sure I 'm not 
more extravagant than a woman ought to be. 

Sir Peter. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no 

323 



324 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slif e ! to spend as 
much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter 
as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a green-house. 

Lady Teazle. Lud, Sir Peter, am I to blame, because 
flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault 
with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I 'm sure, 
I wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew 
under our feet! 

Sir Peter. Zounds! madam — if you had been born to 
this, I should n 't wonder at your talking thus ; but you 
forget what your situation was when I married you. 

Lady Teazle. No, no, I don't ; 't was a very disagreeable 
one, or I should never have married you. 

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in some- 
what a humbler style, — the daughter of a plain country 
squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting 
at your tamber, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch 
of keys at your side; your hair combed smooth over a 
roll, and your apartment hung around with fruits in 
worsted of your own working. 

Lady Teazle. Oh, yes ! I remember it very well, and a 
curious life I led, — my daily occupation to inspect the 
dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the 
family receipt-book, and comb my Aunt Deborah's lap 
dog. 

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, ma 'am, 't was so indeed. 

Lady Teazle. And then, you know, my evening amuse- 
ments; — to draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not ma- 
terials to make up ; to play Pope Joan with the curate ; to 
read a novel to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old 
spinnet to strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. 

Sir Peter. I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, 
madam, these were the recreations I took you from ; but now 



Material for Interpretation 325 

you must have your coach — vis-a-vis — and three powdered 
footmen before your chair ; and in summer, a pair of white 
cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I 
suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind the 
butler, on a docked coach-horse. 

Lady Teazle. No — I never did that : I deny the butler 
and the coach-horse. 

Sir Peter. This, madam, was your situation ; and what 
have I done for you ? I have made you a woman of fashion, 
of fortune, of rank; in short I have made you my wife. 

Lady Teazle. Well, then; and there is but one thing 
more you can make me add to the obligation, and that is — 

Sir Peter. My widow, I suppose ? 

Lady Teazle. Hem ! hem ! 

Sir Peter. I thank you, madam; but don't flatter your- 
self; for though your ill conduct may disturb my peace of 
mind, it shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, 
I am equally obliged to you for the hint. 

Lady Teazle. Then why will you endeavor to make 
yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little 
elegant expense ? 

Sir Peter. 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these 
little elegant expenses w T hen you married me? 

Lady Teazle. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be 
out of the fashion ? 

Sir Peter. The fashion, indeed ! What had you to do 
with the fashion before you married me ? 

Lady Teazle. For my part, I should think you would 
like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. 

Sir Peter. Ay; there again — taste. Zounds! madam, 
you had no taste when you married me ! 

Lady Teazle. That 's very true indeed. Sir Peter ; and 
after having married you, I should never pretend to taste 



326 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished 
our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at 
Lady Sneerwell 's ? 

Sir Peter. Ay, there 's another precious circumstance 
— a charming set of acquaintance you have made there. 

Lady Teazle. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank 
and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation. 

Sir Peter. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation 
with a vengeance; for they don't choose anybody should 
have a character but themselves! — Such a crew! Ah! 
many a wretch had rid on a hurdle who has done less mis- 
chief than these utterers of forged tales, coiners of scan- 
dal, and clippers of reputation. 

Lady Teazle. What ! would you restrain the freedom of 
speech. 

Sir Peter. Ah ! they have made you just as bad as any 
one of the society. 

Lady Teazle. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tol- 
erable grace. 

Sir Peter. Grace, indeed ! 

Lady Teazle. But I vow I bear no malice against the 
people I abuse. When I say an ill-natured thing, 't is out 
of pure good-humor; and I take it for granted, they deal 
exactly in the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you 
know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. 

Sir Peter. Well, well, I '11 call in just to look after my 
character. 

Lady Teazle. Then indeed you must make haste after 
me, or you '11 be too late. So, good-by to you. 

Sir Peter. So — I have gained much by my intended ex- 
postulation; yet, with what a charming air she contradicts 
everything I say, and how pleasingly she knows her con- 
tempt for my authority! Well, though I can't make her 



Material for Interpretation 327 

love me, there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her ; 
and I think she never appears to such advantage, as when 
she is doing everything in her power to plague me. 



THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 

Act 3, Scene 1 

(A room in Sir Peter's house, Sir Peter present, and Lady 
Teazle enters.) 

Lady Teazle. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't 
been quarrelling with Marie? It is not using me well to 
be ill-humored when I am not by. 

Sir Peter. Ah! Lady Teazle, you might have the 
power to make me good-humored at all times. 

Lady Teazle. I am sure I wish I had; for I want you 
to be in charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be 
good-humored now, and let me have two hundred pounds, 
will you? 

Sir Peter. Two hundred pounds ! What, ain 't I to be 
in a good humor without paying for it ? But speak to me 
then, and i' faith there 's nothing I could refuse you. You 
shall have it (gives her notes) ; but seal me a bond of re- 
payment. 

Lady Teazle. Oh, no ; there — my note of hand will do 
as well. 

Sir Peter. And you shall no longer reproach me with 
not giving you an independent settlement. I mean shortly 
to surprise you : — but shall we always live thus, hey ? 

Lady Teazle. If you please. I 'm sure I don't care 
how soon we leave off quarrelling, provided you '11 own you 
were tired first. 



328 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Sir Peter. "Well; then let our future contest be, who 
shall be most obliging. 

Lady Teazle. I assure you, Sir Peter, good-nature be- 
comes you; you look now as you did before we were mar- 
ried, when you used to walk with me under the elms, and 
tell me stories of what a gallant you were in your youth, 
and chuck me under the chin, you would; and ask me if 
I thought I could love an old fellow, who would deny me 
nothing — did n ? t you ? 

Sir Peter. Yes, yes, and you were kind and attentive — 

Lady Teazle. Ay, so I was, and would always take your 
part when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn 
you into ridicule. 

Sir Peter. Indeed ! 

Lady Teazle. Ay ; and when my cousin Sophy has called 
you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for 
thinking of marrying one who might be my father, I have 
always defended you, and said, I didn't think you so ugly 
by any means. 

Sir Peter. Thank you. 

Lady Teazle. And I dared say you 'd make a very good 
sort of a husband. 

Sir Peter. And you prophesied right : and we shall now 
be the happiest couple — 

Lady Teazle. And never differ again ? 

'Sir Peter. No, never ! — though at the same time, indeed, 
my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very 
seriously; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you 
recollect, my love, you always begin first. 

Lady Teazle. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; 
indeed, you always gave the provocation. 

Sir Peter. No see, my angel! take care — contradicting 
is n 't the way to keep friends. ' 



Material for Interpretation 329 

Lady Teazle. Then don't you begin it, my love. 

Sir Peter. There, no ! you — you are going on. You 
don't perceive, my life, that you are just doing the very 
thing which you know always makes me angry. 

Lady Teazle. Nay, you know if you will be angry with- 
out any reason, my dear — 

Sir Peter. There ! now you want to quarrel again. 

Lady Teazle. No, I am sure I don't; but if you will be 
so peevish — 

Sir Peter. There now ! who begins first ? 

Lady Teazle. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing — 
but there 's no bearing your temper. 

Sir Peter. No, no, madam; the fault 's in your own 
temper. 

'Lady Teazle. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy 
said you would be. 

Sir Peter. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent 

gipsy. 

Lady Teazle. You are a great bear, I 'm sure, to abuse 
my relations. 

Sir Peter. Now may all the plagues of marriage be 
doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any 
more. 

Lady Teazle. So much the better. 

Sir Peter. No, no, madam : 't is evident you never cared 
a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry you — a pert, 
rural coquette that had refused half the honest squires in 
the neighborhood. 

Lady Teazle. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you 
— an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only 
because he never could meet anyone w r ho would have him. 

Sir Peter. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased enough 
to listen to me : you never had such an offer before. 



380 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Lady Teazle. No! Didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, 
who everybody said would have been a better match? for 
his estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his 
neck since we have been married. 

Sir Peter. I have done with you, madam ! You are an 
unfeeling, ungrateful — but there 's an end of everything. 
I believe you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, 
madam, I now believe you and Charles are — not without 
grounds. 

Lady Teazle. Take care, Sir Peter ! you had better not 
insinuate any such thing! I '11 not be suspected without 
cause, I promise you. 

Sir Peter. Very well, madam! very well! A separate 
maintenance as soon as you please ! Yes, madam, or a di- 
vorce ! — I '11 make an example of myself for the benefit of 
all old bachelors. 

Lady Teazle. Agreed ! agreed ! And now, my dear Sir 
Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest 
couple — and never differ again, you know — ha! ha! ha! 
Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall 
only interrupt you : so, bye-bye. 

Sir Peter. Plagues and tortures! Can't I make her 
angry either! Oh, I am the most miserable fellow! But 
I '11 not bear her presuming to keep her temper : no ! she 
may break my heart, but she shan't keep her temper. 

Richard B. Sheridan. 



Material for Interpretation SSI 

THE SECRETS OF THE HEART 
(Scene. — A Chalet covered with Honeysuckle.) 

Ninette Ninon 

Ninette 
This way — 

Ninon 

No, this way — 

Ninette 

This way, then. 

(They enter the Chalet.) 
You are as changing, Child, — as Men. 

Ninon 

But are they? Is it true, I mean? 
Who said it? 

Ninette 

Sister Seraphine. 
She was so pious and so good, 
With such sad eyes beneath her hood, 
And such poor little feet. — all bare ! 
Her name was Eugenie la Fere. 
She used to tell us, — moonlight nights, — 
When I was at the Carmelites. 

Ninon 

Ah, then it must be right. And yet, 
Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette — 



332 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Ninette 
But what?— 

Ninon 

Suppose it were not so? 
Suppose there were true men, you know ! 



And then? 



Ninette 



Ninon 



Why, — if that could occur, 
What kind of man should you prefer? 

Ninette 

What looks, you mean ? 

Ninon 

Looks, voice and all. 

Ninette 

Well, as to that, he must be tall, 
Or say, not ' ' tall, ' ' — of middle size ; 
And next, he must have laughing eyes, 
And a hook-nose, — with, underneath, 

! what a row of sparkling teeth ! — 

Ninon 

{Touching her cheek suspiciously,) 
Has he a scar on this side ? 

Ninette 

Hush! 
Someone is coming. No ; a thrush : 

1 see it swinging there. 



Material for Interpretation 333 

Ninon 

Go on. 

Ninette 

Then he must fence (ah, look, 't is gone!) 
And dance like Monseigneur, and sing 
' ' Love was a Shepherd ' ' : — everything 
That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. 

Ninon 
Shall I ? Then mine has black, black hair, 
I mean he should have ; then an air 
Half sad, half noble ; features thin ; 
A little royale on the chin ; 
And such a pale, high brow. And then, 
He is a prince of gentlemen ; — 
He, too, can ride and fence, and write 
Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight 
No worse for that — 

Ninette 

I know your man. 

Ninon 

And I know yours. But you '11 not tell, — 
Swear it ! 

Ninette 
I swear upon this fan, — 
My Grandmother's! 

Ninon 

And I, I swear 
On this old turquoise reliquaire, — 
My great, — great Grandmother's!! — 



334 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

(After a pause) 
Ninette ! 
I feel so sad. 

Ninette 

I too. But why? 

Ninon 
Alas, I know not ! 

Ninette 

(With a sigh) 
Nor do I. 

Austin Dobson. 



CYRANO DE BERGERAC 

Act 1, Scene 4 

(De Guiche, The Bore and The Viscount have been trying 
to make fun of Cyrano, but have been worsted. The 
Viscount thinks now to throw a final insult concerning 
Cyrano's nose, which is enormous and disfiguring.) 
(He. approaches Cyrano, who is watching him, and plac- 
ing himself in front of him with a Joppish air.) 

The Viscount. You — you have a very — ah — a very — 
large nose. 

Cyrano (gravely). Very. Is that all? 

The Viscount. But — 

Cyrano. Ah! no! That is a little short, young man! 
One might make — oh, my Lord! many remarks, on the 
whole, by varying the tone, for example ; listen : — 



Material for Interpretation 335 

Aggressive: "Sir, if I had such a nose, I should have 
it amputated at once ! ' ' 

Friendly : "It must dip into your cup : in order to drink 
you must have a goblet made for you ! ' ' 

Descriptive : " It is a rock ! It is a peak ! It is a cape ! 
What did I say ? It is a peninsula ! ' ' 

Curious: "For what do you use that oblong capsule? 
For an inkstand or a scissors-case ? ' ' 

Gracious: "Do you love the birds so well that you take 
fatherly interest in holding out that perch for their little 
feet?" 

Savage: "When you enjoy your pipe, sir, does the 
smoke ever come out of your nose without some neighbor 
crying that the chimney is on fire?" 

Warning : ' ' With such a weight dragging on your head, 
take care that you do not fall forward on the ground ! ' ' 

Tender : ' ' Have a little parasol made for it, for fear its 
color might fade in the sun ! ' ' 

Pedantic : * ' Only the animal, sir, called by Aristophanes 
the Hippocampelephantocamelos, could have had so much 
flesh and bone under its forehead ! ' ' 

Flippant: "What, my friend, is this hook in style? To 
hang one 's hat on, it is surely very convenient ! ' ' 

Emphatic: "No wind, except the mistral, could make 
you catch cold entirely, magisterial nose!" 

Dramatic : ' ' When it bleeds it is the Eed Sea ! ' ' 

Admiring: "What a sign for a perfumer!" 

Lyrical: "Is it a conch? Are you a triton?" 

Naive : ' ' When can this monument be visited ? ' ' 

Respectful: " Allow me, sir, to salute you: that is what 
is called having a house of one 's own ! ' ' 

Rustic: "Hallo, there! Is that a nose? It is a giant 
turnip or a dwarf melon!" 



336 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Military: M Point against the cavalry !" 

Practical: "Will you put it in a lottery? Surely, sir, 
it will win the first prize." 

{Finally taking off Pyramus, with a sob,) There is that 
nose which has destroyed the harmony of its master's fea- 
tures ! It makes him blush, the traitor ! 

That is very nearly, my dear, what you would have 
said to me if you had a little knowledge of letters, and a 
little wit : but of wit, most lamentable of beings, you 
never had an atom, and of letters, you have only the four 
w T hich form the word : Fool ! Moreover, if you had had 
the invention necessary to make it possible for you, before 
these noble galleries, to serve me with all these mad pleasan- 
tries, you would not have uttered the quarter of the half 
of the beginning of one, because I serve them out to myself 
with enthusiasm, but I allow no one else to serve them to 
me. 

De Guiche (trying to lead away fhe petrified Viscount). 
Viscounty what nonsense! 

The Viscount (suffocated) . Such grand arrogant airs! 
A country bumpkin, who — who — does n 't even wear gloves ! 
And who goes out without ribbons, without bows, and with- 
out frogs. 

Cyrano. I keep my elegance to adorn my morals. I 
do not deck myself out like a coxcomb, but I am more care- 
ful, if I am less vain. I would not go out through neglect, 
leaving an insult not washed away, with my conscience still 
yellow from sleep in the corner of its eye, my honor crum- 
pled, my scruples in mourning. But I walk along with 
nothing upon me that does not shine, plumed with inde- 
pendence and sincerity; it is not a fine figure, it is my 
soul that I restrain as in a corset, and all covered with ex- 



Material for Interpretation 337 

ploits fastened on like ribbons, curling my wit like a mus- 
tache, as I pass through the crowd I make truths ring like 
spurs. 

The Viscount. But, sir — 

Cyrano. I have no gloves? — A serious matter! I have 
just one remaining of a very old pair! Which was once 
very troublesome to me. I threw it in some one 's face. 

The Viscount. Knave, rascal, ridiculous flat-footed 
clown ! 

Cyrano (taking off his hat and bowing as if The Vis- 
count had just introduced himself). Ah? And I am 
Cyrano-Savinien-Hercule-de-Bergerac. 

Edmund Rostand. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

(The scene opens in the lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Micaw- 
ber. Mr. Micawber at this time is suffering under what 
he terms a temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities, 
and is out looking for something to turn up.) 

Mrs. Micawber is at home attending to the twins, one of 
whom she is holding in her arms; the other is in the 
cradle near by, and several of the children are scattered 
about the floor. She has been bothered all the morning 
by the calling of creditors; — at last she speaks, as she 
trots the babe. 

Mrs. Micawber (impatiently). Well, I wonder how 
many more times they will be calling ! However, it *s their 
fault. If Mieaw T ber's creditors won't give him time, they 



338 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

must take the consequences. Oh ! there is some one knock- 
ing now ! I believe that 's Mr. Heep 's knock. It is Mr. 
Heep ! Come in, Mr. Heep. We are very glad to see you. 
Come right in. 

Heep. Is Mr. Micawber in ? 

Mrs. Micawber. No, Mr. Heep. Mr. Micawber has gone 
out. We make no stranger of you, Mr. Heep, so I don't 
mind telling you Mr. Micawber 's affairs have reached a 
crisis. With the exception of a heel of Dutch cheese, which 
is not adapted to the wants of a young family, — and includ- 
ing the twins, — there is nothing to eat in the house, 

Heep. How dreadful ! {Aside.) The very man for my 
purpose. 

( At this moment there is a noise heard on the landing. 
Micawber himself rushes into the room, slamming 
the door behind him.) 

Mrs. Micawber. I 11 never desert Mr. Micawber ! 

Micawber. In the words of the immortal Plato, "It 
must be so, Cato!" But no man is without a friend when 
he is possessed of courage and shaving materials : Emma, 
My Love, fetch me my razors ! {Recovers himself.) Sh — sh 1 
We are not alone! {Gayly.) Oh, Mr. Heep! Delighted 
to see you, my young friend ! Ah, my dear young attorney- 
general, in prospective, if I had only known you when my 
troubles commenced, my creditors would have been a great 
deal better managed than they were ! You will pardon the 
momentary laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive 
by a recent collision with a minion of the law, — in short, 
with a ribald turncock attached to the waterworks. Emma, 
my love, our supply of water has been cut off. Hope has 
sunk beneath the horizon ! Bring me a pint of laudanum ! 

Heep. Mr. Micawber, would you be willing to tell me 
the amount of your indebtedness ? 



Material for Interpretation 339 

Micawber. It is only a small amount for nutriment, 
beef, mutton, etc., some trifle, seven and six pence ha'penny. 

Heep. I '11 pay it for you. 

Micawber. My dear friend ! You overpower me with 
obligation. Shall I admit the officer? {Turns and goes to 
the door; opens it.) Enter myrmidon. Hats off, in the 
presence of a solvent debtor and a lady! (Heep pays the 
officer and dismisses him.) 

Heep. Now, Mr. Micawber, I suppose you have no ob- 
jection to giving me your I. 0. U. for the amount. 

Micawber. Certainly not. I am always ready to put 
my name to any species of negotiable paper, from twenty 
shillings upward. Excuse me, Heep, I '11 write it. (Goes 
through motion of writing it on leaf of memo. book. 
Tears it out and hands it to Heep.) I suppose this is 
renewable on the usual term ? 

Heep. Better. You can work it out. I come to offer 
you the position of clerk in my partner's office — the firm 
of Wickfield and Heep. 

Micawber. What! A Clerk! Emma, my love, I be- 
lieve I may have no hesitation of saying something has at 
last turned up ! 

Heep. You will excuse me, Mrs. Micawber, but I should 
like to speak a few words to your husband in private. 

Mrs. Micawber. Certainly! Wilkins, my love, go on 
and prosper ! 

Micawber. My dear, I shall endeavor to do so to an 
unlimited extent ! Ah, the sun has again risen — the clouds 
have passed — the sky is clear, and another score may be 
begun at the butcher's — Heep, precede me. Emma, my 
love. Au Re voir. 

Oharles Dickens. 



340 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

ERSTWHILE SUSAN 

{The scene is in Barnaby Dreary's home at Reinhartz 
Station, Pa. We are introduced to the frowning Bar- 
naby, the local tinsmith, his two boorish sons, Jacob and 
Emanuel Dreary, and Barnabetta, the Cinderella of the 
household, upon whose frail shoulders all the housekeep- 
ing of the family has fallen. Dreary confides to Abel 
Buchter, the school-teacher, that he is about to marry for 
the third time, tho not for romantic reasons. He has 
taken the matter up with a Beading matrimonial bureau, 
with the result that the lady is coming to meet him and 
enter into negotiations. Her name is Miss Juliet Mil- 
ler. David Jordan, a Reading attorney and judge, calls 
upon Dreary to obtain his endorsement of a new road 
from Reading to Reinhartz, but fails to interest the hide- 
hound tinsmith in anything like the progress of the com- 
munity. They finally quarrel over Barnabetta, Jordan 
protesting against Dreary's domineering methods of dis- 
cipline. The young lawyer's interest in the girl having 
been aroused, Barnaby goes upstairs to indulge in a 
bath, in honor of the advent of his future wife. Pres- 
ently she is escorted into the Dreary home by Abel 
Buchter. Miss Juliet Miller is, we find, a friend of 
Jordan's and to him she explains her unconventional 
method of choosing a husband. Abel goes upstairs to 
get Barnaby.) 

Juliet. On love's light wings, alas, too soon, was I 
wafted to Cupid's bower. 

JorDx\n. And I wish you 'd take your chance while you 



Material for Interpretation 341 

have it and let them waft you away from here before he 
comes. 

Juliet. No, my friend, my wings are folded. 

Jordan. Of course — I know your latest idea — your 
scheme for breaking into the Reinhartz community — but 
you 'd better continue your uplift work among people you 
understand. I have boundless faith in you — but I 've seen 
him. 

Juliet. So? Well, all we have to do is to awaken the 
esthetic nature of these people and impress them with the 
beautiful realities of life. That will change them. 

Jordan. Change that beast — never ! I have heard him 
roar. 

Juliet. Ere long, he shall roar you as gently as a night- 
ingale. 

Jordan. But what in the world do you want him for ? 
Can 't you start the work some other way ? 

Juliet. Not so directly, my friend. The step I am tak- 
ing is unexampled, I know; but it is the one sure way. I 
have created this situation and I believe in facing every 
situation in life with equanimity and hope. 

Jordan. Well, I assure you Dreary is no situation to 
face with equanimity and hope. Now, as your lawyer, I 
advise you — 

Juliet. Remember, years ago in Cedar Center, Iowa, 
you advised me not to purchase the Central Iowa Stationery 
and Fancy Goods Emporium. I did take over the estab- 
lishment and it is still prospering. Later all my friends 
urged me not to become financially responsible for the Ami 
Bailey Theatrical Enterprises. Again I disregarded ad- 
vice. You remember the fortunate result. Indeed, had it 
not been for the treachery of Burt Budsaw, my municipal 



342 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

theater establishment in Cedar Center would still be flour- 
ishing, the pride and glory of that locality. 

Jordan. Yes, yes, I know all about that. But that is 
mainly business. But do these people around here know 
of your stage experience? 

Juliet. Sh! Sh! No, and they must never find out. 
They know me as a lecturer and an elocutionist ; but as an 
actress, oh, no, no, my friend, that would never do. 

Jordan. I suppose not; but see here, Miss Miller, this 
Reinhartz uplift idea of yours — 

Juliet. Pure idealish, I know. 

Jordan. That 's a mild way of putting it. Still I don't 
believe any man will get the better of you. 

Juliet. One did — once. 

Jordan. I beg your pardon, I forgot. I 'm sorry. 

Juliet. Pray do not speak of it, it revives unbearable 
memories. 

Jordan. Yes, of course. 

Juliet. When I came east I determined to bury my past 
and all the memory of Burt Budsaw's treachery and to be- 
gin life anew, as you know. 

Jordan. Well, if you 're planning another new start in 
life, let me beg of you not to make it with Barnaby Dreary. 

Juliet. Ah ! that 's where you don't comprehend. Bar- 
naby Dreary is just the man, because, I understand, he is 
quite the worst. 

Jordan. Now see here! (He waits a moment, looks at 
his watch.) It 's a quarter past six. I 've got to be back 
in Reading to-night. All the way over on the coach I 
tried to make you tell me your real reason for this mad 
scheme. 

Juliet. Haven't I told you? I have heard of this 
curious people. I know of this extraordinary community. 



Material for Interpretation 343 

Among the women there is no vision, there is no beauty. I 
have determined to put charm into their lives to lift them 
up into the sunlight of the new ideas — to lift them up into 
the sunlight of the new ideas — the new day. 

Jordan. And how do you expect to do it ? 

Juliet. My plans are not yet fully matured, but I hope 
ere long to establish a community center in Reinhartz, an 
educational rendezvous. Indeed, I might tell you, my 
friend, I have brought with me my entire theatrical ward- 
robe and expect eventually to illumine Reinhartz with reci- 
tations of Shakespeare's heroines in complete costume. 

Jordan. Shakespeare in Reinhartz ? Well, I would n 't 
bank too much on that if I were you, Miss Miller. Your 
theatrical costumes are apt to be drug on the market in this 
locality, I am afraid. 

Juliet. Not at all, not at all, my friend. Even as Mrs. 
Barnaby Dreary my stage wardrobe will have a certain 
educational value. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever, " 
you know. 

Jordan. Yes, yes, that 's right, but I know you well 
enough to be sure you have some worth while reason for this 
matrimonial scheme of yours. Come, now, what is it ? 

Juliet. Well, my friend, the truth is, I ? m getting on. 

Jordan. No, no ! 

Juliet. I have been looking back over the years, some 
of them very pleasant, some a bit hard, but all more or less 
interesting. 

Jordan. Yes, you are the kind that finds some joy and 
spice in every adventure. 

Juliet. You 're quite right. The variety and adven- 
ture of my career have been stimulating — even educational. 
What I have learned I have taught myself, for I have been 
to no school except the school of life. But, you know, my 



344 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

friend, I 'm getting a little tired. During the last month 
I have made up my mind I want a home. 

Jordan. But you have money enough to have a 
home, a settled income from the Central Iowa Emporium 
stock. 

Juliet. No, no, it is n 't the money. The truth is I 'm 
tired of being alone. I have decided to settle down and 
become the mother of these children. 

Jordan. Too bad you haven't had some children of 
your own. 

Juliet. It is, indeed, my friend, it is indeed, for I con- 
tend that it is the right of every woman, married or single, 
to have one child, and no question asked. 

Jordan. Well, Miss Miller, not to pursue this delicate 
subject to its extremity, even if you are bent on matrimony, 
don ? t take Dreary. He 's a tyrant and a bully. He treats 
his own daughter like a brute. 

Juliet. Not that child, not that lovely child ! 

Jordan. Do you know her? 

Juliet. Well, yes, I guess I do. I wait for her every 
third Wednesday. 

Jordan. What ! 

Juliet. Er — that is, you see — I see her every third 
Wednesday in Reading. You know she comes in on a 
wagon selling tins. I Ve tried to make friends, but she 's 
afraid. 

Jordan. Poor little girl ! Poor little Cinderella ! 

Juliet. The very first time I saw her — it was a fearfully 
blustering March morning — riding alone on the tin wagon, 
my interest was aroused. Something within me said "that 
child needs you." It took me some time to find out who she 
was. Then her father advertised for a new wife, and I 
felt that opportunity had again knocked at my door. My 



Material for Interpretation 345 

friend, I 'm going to marry Barnaby Dreary. I 'm going 
to be a mother. I 'm going to have that child. (Rises.) 

Jordan. Now I understand. You may count on me, 
and I hope you '11 win. 

Juliet. I will win. "In my bright lexicon of youth, 
there 's no vSuch word as fail." 
(Presently Barnaby comes down stairs, fearfully gotten up 

in his Sunday clothes. Juliet gasps as she looks at her 

prospective bridegroom. Barnaby is likewise amazed at 

her gorgeous array.) 

Barnaby. Well, I 'm know if you ain't as pretty as 
some, you 're very good. And what is beauty without 
goodliness ? 

Juliet. "Well, goodliness somewhat tempered with a 
little beauty might be more acceptable to both of us. How- 
ever, in this life, Mr. Dreary, the point is, not what we want 
but what we can get. 

Barnaby. Very true, very true. 

Juliet. And now, not to occupy the entire afternoon 
with conversation, I have come, as you are aware, to make 
myself acquainted with your menage — I mean to learn 
something of your children and your home. 

Barnaby. Well, who do you want to see, 'cept me ? 

Juliet. Tell me all about your dear little children. 
I 'm so anxious to know them. 

Barnaby. Well, they 're pretty well growed. Barna- 
betta, the youngest, is near seventeen a 'ready. But she 'd 
seem awful dumb to you, so high toned as what you are. 

Juliet. The dear child, dear child — don't you love to 
contemplate the young girl — Mr. Dreary — 

"Standing with reluctant feet 
Where the brook and river meet." 



346 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Barnaby. Well, not yet. 

Juliet. You know, Mr. Dreary, I feel intuitively that 
your daughter — what was that pretty name you called her ? 

Barnaby. Barnabetta — after her mom and me. Bar- 
naby and Etta. 

Juliet. How charming! I feel instinctively, Mr. 
Dreary, that dear little Barnabetta and I are going to be 
friends. 

Barnaby. Barnabetta ain't never got much to say fur 
herself. 

Juliet. Well, Mr. Barnaby, I shall do my best to 
awaken her nature to help her, as Prof. Schmidt of Reading 
so frequently remarks, to find herself. The one thing we 
must do, the professor says, Mr. Dreary, is to find ourselves, 
He insists upon it. 

Barnaby. He does, does he? Well, that is somepin I 
never had to do yet, find myself. I don't remember ever 
losin' myself. 

Juliet. Is Barnabetta joyful at the idea of my advent 
into this establishment, Mr. Dreary? 

Barnaby. She don't know it yet. She takes things 
very quiet, Barnabetta does. Whether she 's joyful, she 
won 't make any when I tell her. But now, Miss Miller, do 
you feel sure that you 'd suit me ? 

Juliet. Oh, dear, delightful — that 's your modest way 
of putting it, isn't it? How droll you are, trying to get 
up courage to ask me if you suit me, are n't you? I won't 
be naughty and tease you, Mr. Dreary. If it were only you 
I might hesitate ; but when I think of those three motherless 
children — for sixteen years Without a mother's care and 
guidance — the call is much too strong. My whole woman's 
nature responds to it, Mr. Dreary. I accept your proposal. 
(Barnabetta, who is only seventeen, is dismayed at the 



Material for Interpretation 347 

news of her father's prospective remarriage, feeling that 
it will only mean more work for her. Shyly she rejects 
Miss Miller's advances to establish a friendship; but the 
older woman does not give up hope, and gradually 
lightens the household burdens for the little girl. The 
two sons, more especially Jacob, are more than antago- 
nistic to the new Mrs. Dreary. Her stepmother exerts all 
her efforts to win Barnabetta, aided and abetted by Jor- 
dan. The Cinderella of the household decides that the 
burden of life is too much> and is about ready to steal out 
and throw herself into the river when her stepmother 
presents her with a new coat and Judge Jordan invites 
her for a sleigh ride. Protesting, she goes. Barnaby 's 
anger is aroused by Juliet's actions in taking matters 
thus into her own hands. A quarrel ensues.) 
Barnaby. Now lookahere? Tillie "Weber's just been 

to the shop over and she says that when Emanuel and me 

was at Lebanon last Monday you had Emmy Haverstick 

doing the washing. That 's somepin T don't do, hire the 

washin ' yet when I have a wife and growed-up dauthter at 

home. I don't do that there. 

Juliet. Well, then, husband, we '11 say I hired Emmy 

Haverstick, and let it go at that. 

Barnaby. Well, whether you hired her or me — what 's 

the difference ? I say I won't have it, Jool-yet. 

Juliet. Not to argue with you, Barnaby, it is quite too 

absurd to imagine me as the laundress of this establishment. 
Barnaby. Well, Barnabetta kin do the tub part and you 

hang out on the line, if that 's more refined. 

Juliet. Barnabetta is quite as unfitted for that sort of 

work as I am. I will pay the laundress. 

Barnaby. Well, Juliet, I kin tell you you won't git a 

chanct to pay her again. Now then, what was Barnabetta 



348 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

doin' all Monday if you cooked dinner and Emmy Haver- 
stick done the washin', heh? 

Juliet. Barnaby, I may as well tell you first as last that 
the time has come when you must consider your daughter's 
educational pursuits. 

Barnaby. What ! She 's got education enough a 'ready. 
An' too much for her own good, I 'm thinkin'. Look at me 
— I was only educated with a Testament an' a spellin' book 
an' a slate. We had no such blackboards even to recite 
on. An' do I look as if I need to know any more 'n what 
I know a 'ready? 

Juliet. Far be it from me, Barnaby, to give complete 
expression to my inmost thoughts. 

Barnaby. (Picking up book from table.) What 's this 
here? 

Juliet. A book of synonyms. 

Barnaby. Of what ? 

Juliet. Synonyms. I want Barnabetta to enlarge her 
vocabulary. 

Barnaby. (Tossing book on table.) Say, she ain't to 
waste her time gettin ' the cinnemons. 

Juliet. (Begins softly to hum) 

"By the blue Alsatian Mountains, 
Dwelt a maiden wondrous fair. ' ' 

Barnaby. It 's well you got married, Jool-yet. 

Juliet. It 's well you did, husband dear, I 'm not so 
sure about myself. 

Barnaby. Fur the reason that you needed a man to 
manage your money. I was just countin' together how 
much you spent yet since you 're here a 'ready, an' it 
amounts to somepin awful. 



Material for Interpretation 349 

Juliet. But, Barnaby, I 've always spent my income. 

Barnaby. What ! you spend two thousand a year all on 
yourself? I jest suspicioned as much. Yi, yi, yi! 

Juliet. Oh, you are so humorous, Barnaby. Don't you 
worry, honey, about my finances. 

Barnaby. Well, after this, when your interest money 
comes in, I invest it again. You ain 't to fling money around 
as if you was one of the Rockyf ellers, or who ever — 

Juliet. There, there, Barnaby. You seem to forget all 
about its being my money. 

Barnaby. I ain't so sure your money is tied up yet so 
that your mister has nothin' to say. 

Juliet. Fie fie, run back to your shop, dearie. 

' ' Lost, the golden minutes 
Sixty diamond seconds. ' ' 

Jake. Say! What do you mean by somepin like this, 
anyhow, heh ? They tell me at the hotel that you druv my 
horse to Lebanon this afternoon — You leave my horse be. 

Juliet. But, son, I 'm about to buy a dear little buggy, 
and you may have the use of it in exchange for my use of 
your horse. That will save you fifty cents a ride. 

Jake. I tell you, you leave my horse be. You ain't got 
no right to her. 

Juliet. Jacob, dear boy. 

Jake. Don't "dear Jacob" me. {Throws whip on 
table.) You leave my horse be. 

Barnaby. (Rises.) What 's this, Jool-yet, you out 
ridin' this afternoon, a 'ready? I didn't give you leave. 
(Juliet roars.) 

Juliet. But, Barnaby, the work is not neglected, if that 
is what you mean. 



350 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Barnaby. Yes, when you pay out money to hire people 
yet, to do what you ought to do. Mind you, Jool-yet, if 
that ther Emmy Haverstick shows up here next Monday 
morning to do the washin' you 11 get a shamed face in 
front of her, fur I '11 chase her off. 

Juliet. ■ ' By the blue Alsatian Mountains — ' ' 

Barnaby. Fur thirteen years I paid Emmy Haverstick 
good money. But not any more. I figure that what I paid 
her in them thirteen years and the interest would amount 
to nigh $400 by now. 

Juliet. "By the blue Alsatian Mountains — " 

Barnaby. Say, Barnabetta she 's gettin' spoilt for me 
somepin fierce, but I 11 put a stop to that. 

Jacob. And about time, too, pop. Barnabetta 's always 
ironed my* Sunday pants fur me, and to-day she wouldn't. 

Juliet. But, my dear, I could n 't allow her to iron your 
pants. Take your pants to a tailor. It is not a woman's 
work to iron pants — don't call them pants. (Enter 
Emanuel, also angry.) 

Emanuel. Say, where 's Barnabetta? 

Jake. I kin tell you. Barnabetta 's out sleigh ridin' 
with the lawyer. 

Barnaby. Where did she get the dare ? 

Juliet. I gave her permission. 

Barnaby. You did, eh ? Well, I '11 show her onct when 
she gits home. 

Jake. Yes, leave pop to show her. 

Emanuel. Where 's my clean shirts ? 

Juliet. I explained to you all last Monday regarding 
the washing. 

Barnaby. Ain't it the wife's dooty to do the house- 
work? 

Juliet. Certainly, husband — or have it done. 



Material for Interpretation 351 

Barnaby. {Turns to the two hoys.) This here ends it. 
Barnabetta keeps company and gits married. I ain't 
keepin' two idle wimmin. 

Emanuel. I want my shirts washed and ironed now. 

Jake. And I want my Sunday pants pressed. 

Juliet. Gentlemen, I have already informed you, we 
will not wash your shirts, and we will not iron your Sunday 
pants. Barnaby, you may not have suspected it, my dear, 
but when you married me, you led to Hymen's altar a 
woman of more or less resolution. 

{Dramatized by Marion DeForrest from the novel "Barna- 
betta" by Helen R. Martin.) 



THE RIVALS 

Act 3, Scene 3 

(The scene is in Mrs. Malaprop 's lodgings. Mrs. Mala- 

prop enters with a letter in her hand, Captain Absolute 

following.) 

Mrs. Malaprop. Your being Sir Anthony's son, Cap- 
tain, would itself be a sufficient accommodation; but from 
the ingenuity of your appearance, I am convinced you de- 
serve the character here given of you. 

Captain Absolute. Permit me to say, madam, that as 
I have never yet had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, 
my principal inducement in this affair, at present, is the 
honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop, of whose intellec- 
tual accomplishments, elegant manners, and unaffected 
learning, no tongue is silent. 

Mrs. M. Sir, you do me infinite honor! I beg, Cap- 



352 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

tain, you'll be seated — {Both sit.) — Ah! few gentlemen, 
nowadays, know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a 
woman ! Few think how a little knowledge becomes a gen- 
tlewoman! Men have no sense now but for the worthless 
flower of beauty. 

Capt. A. It is but too true, indeed, ma'am; yet I fear 
our ladies should share the blame ; they think our admira- 
tion of beauty so great, that knowledge, in them, would be 
superfluous. Thus, like garden trees, they seldom show 
fruit, till time has robbed them of the more specious blos- 
soms : few, like Mrs. Malaprop, and the orange tree, are 
rich in both at once. 

Mrs. M. Sir, you overpower me with good breeding. 
(Aside.) He is the very pine-apple of politeness! You 
are not ignorant, Captain, that this giddy girl has, some- 
how, contrived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, 
eavesdropping ensign, whom none of us have seen, and no- 
body knows anything of. 

Capt. A. Oh ! I have heard the silly affair before. I 'm 
not at all prejudiced against her on that account. But it 
must be very distressing, indeed, to you, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. Oh, it gives me the hydrostatics to such a de- 
gree! — I thought she had persisted from corresponding 
with him : the fellow — I believe I have it in my pocket. 

Capt. A. Oh, the devil! my last note! (Aside.) 

Mrs. M. Ay, here it is. 

Capt. A. Ay, my note, indeed ! Oh, the little traitress 
Lucy! (Aside.) 

Mrs. M. There, perhaps you may know the writing. 
(Gives him the letter.) 

Capt. A. I think I have seen the hand before — yes, cer- 
tainly must have seen this hand before. 

Mrs. M. Nay, but read it, Captain. 



Material for Interpretation 353 

Capt. A. (Reads.) "My soul's idol, my adored 
Lydia ! * 9 . . . Very tender, indeed ! 

Mrs. M. Tender! ay, and profane too, o' my conscience. 

Capt. A. "I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence 
you send me, the more so as my new rival — " 

Mrs. M. That 's you, sir. 

Capt. A. "Has universally the character of being an ac- 
complished gentleman, and a man of honor." — Well, that 's 
handsome enough. 

Mrs. M. Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so. 

Capt. A. That he had, I '11 answer for him, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. But go on, sir — you '11 see presently. 

Capt. A. "As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon, 
who guards you ' ' — Who can he mean by that ? 

Mrs. M. Me, sir — me — he means me there — what do you 
think of that ? — but go on a little further. 

Capt. A. Impudent scoundrel — "it shall go hard, but 
I will elude her vigilance! as I am told that the same 
ridiculous vanity which makes her dress up her coarse 
features, and deck her dull chat with hard words which she 
don't understand — " 

Mrs. M. There, sir, an attack upon my language ! what 
do you think of that? an aspersion upon my parts of 
speech ! was ever such a brute ! Sure, if I reprehend any- 
thing in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and 
a nice derangement of epitaphs 

Capt. A. He deserves to be hanged and quartered! let 
me see — "some ridicule vanity" — 

Mrs. M. You need not read it again, sir ! 

Capt. A. I beg pardon, ma'am — "does also lay her open 
to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended ad- 
miration" — an impudent coxcomb — "so that I have a 
scheme to see you shortly, with the old harridan's consent, 



354 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

and even to make her a go-between in our interview. ' ' — "Was 
ever such assurance ! 

Mrs. M. Did you ever hear anything like it? (They 
rise.) He '11 elude my vigilance, will he? — Yes, yes! ha! 
ha ! he 's very likely to enter these doors ! — we 11 try who 
comes out best! 

Capt. A. So we will, ma 'am — so we will. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
a conceited puppy ! ha ! ha ! ha ! "Well, but, Mrs. Malaprop, 
as the girl seems so infatuated by this fellow, suppose you 
were to wink at her corresponding with him for a little 
time — let her even plot an elopement with him — then do you 
connive at her escape — while I, just in the nick, will have 
the fellow laid by the heels, and fairly contrive to carry 
her off in his stead. 

Mrs. M. I am delighted with the scheme; never was 
anything better perpetrated. 

Capt. A. But pray, could I not see the lady for a few 
minutes now? — I should like to try her temper a little. 

Mrs. M. "Why, I don't know — I doubt she is not pre- 
pared for a visit of this kind — There is a decorum in these 
matters. 

Capt. A. Lord, she won't mind me! — only tell her, 
Beverley — 

Mrs. M. Sir! 

Capt. A. Gently, good tongue! (Aside.) 

Mrs. M. What did you say of Beverley ? 

Capt. A. Oh, I was going to propose that you should tell 
her, by way of jest, that it was Beverley who was below — 
she 'd come down fast enough then — ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. M. 'T would be a trick she well deserves — besides, 
you know, the fellow tells her he '11 get my consent to see 
her — ha! ha! — Let him, if he can, I say again. — Lydia, 
come down here ! (Calling.) He '11 make me a go-between 



Material for Interpretation S55 

in their interviews! — ha! ha! ha! — Come down, I say, 
Lydia ! — I don't wonder at your laughing — ha ! ha ! ha ! his 
impudence is truly ridiculous. 

Capt. A. 'T is very ridiculous, upon my soul, ma 'am ! — 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. M. The little hussy won't hear.— Well, I '11 go and 
tell her at once who it is — she shall know that Captain 
Absolute is come to wait on her ; and I '11 make her behave 
as becomes a young woman. 

Capt. A. As you please, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. For the present, Captain, your servant — Ah, 
you 've not done laughing yet, I see — elude my vigilance! 
Yes, yes — Ha ! ha ! ha ! (Exit.) 

Richard B. Sheridan. 



THE RIVALS 

Act 4, Scene 1 

(Acres and his servant David are present. Acres has been 
persuaded by the valorous Sir Lucius 'Trigger that he- 
should fight a duel, and defend his "honor." His serv- 
ant, very wisely argues against such a proceeding.) 

Dav. Then, by the mass, sir, I would do no such thing ! 
ne'er a Sir Lucius 'Trigger in the kingdom should make 
me fight, when I wasn't so minded! Oons! what will the 
old lady say when she hears o ' it ? 

Acres. But my honor, David, my honor! I must be 
very careful of my honor. 

Dav. Ay, by the mass, and I would be very careful of 



356 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

it ; and I think, in return, my honor could n 't do less than 
to be very careful of me. 

Acres. Odds blades! David, no gentleman will ever 
risk the loss of his honor ! 

Dav. I say, then, it would be but civil in honor never to 
risk the loss of a gentleman. — Lookye, "master, this honor 
seems to me to be marvellous false friend ; ay, truly, a very 
courtier-like servant. Put the case, I was a gentleman 
(which, thank heaven, no one can say of me) ; well — my 
honor makes me quarrel with another gentleman of my ac- 
quaintance. So — we fight. (Pleasant enough that.) 
Boh! I kill him — (the more ? s my luck). Now pray, who 
gets the profit of it? — why, my honor. But, put the case 
that he kills me ! by the mass ! I go to the worms, and my 
honor whips over to my enemy. 

Acres. No, David. In that case! — odds crowns and 
laurels ! your honor follows you to the grave ! 

Dav. Now, that 's just the place where I could make a 
shift to do without it. 

Acres. Zounds! David, you are a coward! It doesn't 
become my valor to listen to you. — What, shall I disgrace 
my ancestors ! — Think of that, David — think what it would 
be to disgrace my ancestors ! 

Dav. Under favor, the surest way of not disgracing 
them, is to keep as long as you can out of their company. 
Look ye, now, master, to go to them in such haste — with an 
ounce of lead in your brains — I should think it might as 
well be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of folks 
but they are the last people I should choose to have a 
visiting acquaintance with. 

Acres. But, David, now, you don't think there is such 
very, very — great danger, hey? — Odds life! people often 
fight without any mischief done ! 



Material for Interpretation 357 

Dav. By the mass, I think 't is ten to one against you. 
Oons! here to meet some lion-headed fellow, I warrant, with 
his damned double-barrelled swords, and cut-and-thrust 
pistols ! Lord bless us ! it makes me tremble to think on 't — 
those be such desperate bloody-minded weapons ! Well, I 
never could abide them ! — from a child I never could fancy 
them ! — I suppose there an't been so merciless a beast in the 
world as your loaded pistol ! 

Acres. Zounds! I won't be afraid! — odds fire and 
fury! you shan't make me afraid. — Here is the challenge 
and I have sent for my dear friend, Jack Absolute, to 
carry it for me. 

Dav. Ay, i' the najne of mischief, let him be the mes- 
senger. — For my part, I would n't lend a hand to it, for the 
best horse in your stable. By the mass! it don't look like 
another letter! — it is, as I may say, a designing and mali- 
cious-looking letter ! — and I warrant smells of gun-powder, 
like a soldier 's pouch ! Oons ! I would n 't swear it may n 't 
go off! 

Acres. Out, you poltroon ! — you ha ' n 't the valor of a 
grasshopper. 

Dav. "Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad news, to be 
sure, at Clod Hall! but I ha' done. — How Phillis will howl 
when she hears of it ! — ay, poor bitch, she little thinks what 
shooting her master 's going after ! — and I warrant old 
Crop, who has carried your honor, field and road these ten 
years, will curse the hour he was born ! {Whimpering.) 

Acres. It won't do, David — I am determined to fight, so 
get along, you coward, while I 'm in the mind. 

Richard B. Sheridan. 



358 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

TU QUOQUE 

Nellie 
If I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, 

Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, 
I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, 

If I were you ! 

Frank 

If I were you, when persons I affected, 

Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, 

I would, at least, pretend I recollected, 
If I were you ! 

Nellie 
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, 

Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, 
I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, 

If I were you ! 

Frank 

If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer 
Whiff of the best, — the mildest honey-dew, 

I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, 
If I were you ! 

Nellie 
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, 
Even to write the "Cynical Review"! 

Frank 

No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, 
If I were you ! 



Material for Interpretation 359 

Nellie 

Really ! You would ? Why, Frank, you 're quite delight- 
ful- 
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; 

Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, 
If I were you ! 

Frank 

It is the cause. I mean your chaperone is 
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! 

I shall retire. I 'd spare that poor Adonis, 
If I were you ! 

Nellie 
Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir ; 

Where shall it be? To China— or Peru? 
Go ! I should leave inquirers my address, sir, 

If I were you ! 

Frank 
No, — I remain. To stay and fight a duel 

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do — 
Ah, you are strong, — I would not then be cruel, 

If I were you ! 

Nellie 
One does not like one 's feelings to be doubted, — 

Frank 
One does not like one 's friends to misconstrue. 

Nellie 
If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted? — 



360 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Frank 

I should admit that I was pique, too. 

# 

Nellie 

Ask me to dance. I '& say no more about it, 
If I were you ! 

Henry Austin Dobson. 



THE UNIVERSAL IMPULSE 

(The simple Simons, highbrows of the purest water, are 
receiving their friends upon their day at home. About 
five o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Maud Minerva, author 
of "The Soulmate of Matilda/' "Lightsome Lobelia/ 9 
etc., bravely pushes her way through a thicket of elbows, 
palms and hat-snatching wall ornaments, ducks skillfully 
under gleaming hatpins, and finally receives a push from 
the mob behind which precipitates her into a drawing- 
room dimly lighted by red candles and crowded with 
people. As she pauses to take breath she is greeted by a 
gentleman highbrow acquaintance.) 

Miss Maud Minerva. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Gals- 
worthy Hewlett % I 'm afraid to move ; it is so dark and the 
furniture is so murderous — carved rosewood with razor- 
edged leaves and petals. Who is here today? 

Mr. Galsworthy Hewlett (with malicious joy). Not a 
soul but celebrities. Every man, woman, child and clergy- 
man here a highbrow. But now let me tell you about a play 
I am writing. It is — 

Miss Maud Minerva (in tones of consternation) . You 



Material for Interpretation 361 

don't mean they 're all highbrows! And it 's my cook's 
day out. I would never, never have come here if I had n't 
hoped to find some dear old body who would take me home 
in her limousine, give me a nice hot dinner and suggest a 
play or the Opera afterwards. (Turning to the woman be- 
side her and speaking with icy asperity.) Will you very 
kindly take your elbow out of my ear? I think it has per- 
forated the drum. How do you do, Mr. Rodin Cezanne? 
Painting a wonderful new picture, I suppose ! 

Mr. Rodin Cezanne. How do you do, Miss Minerva? 
(In a husky whisper.) Don't touch the punch ; it 's poison. 
And the tea! Carbolic acid, I think. Sandwiches not so 
bad, considering the Simple Simon's alleged brains. But 
let me tell you my great new idea for a play Belasco — 

Miss Maud Minerva (hastily). So interesting! Who is 
that over there? 

Mr. Rodin Cezanne. Oh, that is the great woman pianist 
or composer or something — musical, you know. Interprets 
someone or other, or something or other. But about my 
new play. Lieblers— 

Miss Maud Minerva (more hastily). Charming! How 
do you do, Mr. Strauss Debussy? How is the new sym- 
phony coming on ? 

Mr. Strauss Debussy. Given it up. Am writing a play 
— Henry B. Harris crazy about the first act, and the Shu- 
berts offering any sum for it. The plot — 

Miss Maud Minerva (hurriedly) . So interesting ! Who 
are those two young women glaring at each other over 
there ? 

Mr. Strauss Debussy. Oh, that 's the young Russian 
girl who almost threw a bomb at the Czar and got a week 
in prison ; and the other one is an artificially-f ed-in-prison 
suffragette, who has thrown rocks at the Prime Minister. 



362 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Naturally the Russian girl is quite upset about it, so she 
is putting her experience into a play. And you would never 
think it, but they are all after mine — Frohman and Mrs. 
Fiske both clamoring for it. A new idea — fair young heir- 
ess, wicked guardian and a missing will. The first scene 
is — 

Miss Maud Minerva {turning with a cold stare to the 
woman beside her). Wha-t-t? Sorry, but how could I 
possibly know that my hatpin was in your eye? Oh, Miss 
Humphry Ward Glyn — so glad to see you ! Stunning short 
story of yours in — er — urn — m — m — 's this month; charac- 
terization, logical development, atmosphere and — er all en- 
chanting. 

Miss Humphry Ward Glyn. Thank you so much, dear, 
but I 'm not writing short stories now. I 'hi doing a play. 
In some mysterious way it got noised abroad, and every 
manager in New York is beseeching me for a sight of it. 
It is something quite new. The problem is, that a woman 
with a past wants to marry the heir of a great name and 
vast estates, and — 

Miss Maud Minerva (desperately). Fascinating! Who 
is that over there ? 

Miss Humphry Ward Glyn. That is the great Nor- 
wegian actress. She detests our food, and always carries 
garlic and onions about in her handbag. See, the dear 
thing has a head of cabbage now under her arm and is 
tearing off the leaves and eating them while she is telling 
every one that she can't get a play to suit her so she is 
writing one. 

Miss Maud Minerva (wildly). Good-bye, dear. Oh, Mr. 
Galsworthy Hewlett, would you kindly step off my feet ? I 
dare say I Ve got to say good-bye to the Simple Simons. 
(She moves forward, then stops abruptly and suppresses a 



Material for Interpretation 363 

groan.) Oh, Mr. Rodin Cezanne, just give me your arm a 
moment? One of these rosewood chairs reached out and 
broke my kneecap. They are simply alive with malicious 
animal magnetism. Thank you; I think I can walk now, 
but I am faint with hunger. (She advances toward the 
hostess.) 

Dear Mrs. Simple Simon, I always look forward so 
eagerly to your days at home. It is such a comfort to know 
that one isn't going to meet any Philistines, just all of us 
dear highbrows, with the same intellectual sympathies, the 
same consuming love for Art, the same intense admiration 
for each other's work and — er — utter lack of jealousy. So 
lovely and harmonious. But really I must tell you my 
little secret. I am writing plays for every manager in New 
York. They stand in line under my window and snatch 
at the scenes and acts I throw out to them like hungry dogs 
after a bone. So interesting, is n't it? Good-bye. 

Mrs. Wilson Woodrow. 



MOONSHINE 1 

(Characters) 

Luke Hazy, Moonshiner 
A Revenue Officer 

Scene: (Hut of a moonshiner in the mountain wilds of 
North Carolina. Door hack left. Window hack right 
center. Old deal table right center. Kitchen chair at 
either side of table, not close to it. Old cupboard in left 
corner. Rude stone fireplace left side. On back ivall 

i All rights reserved. 



364 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

near door is a rough pencil sketch of a man hanging from 
a tree. 
At rise of curtain a commotion is heard outside of hut.) 

Luke. (Off stage.) It 's alright, boys. . . . Jist leave 
him to me. . . . Git in there, Mister Revenue. 

(Revenue, a Northerner in city attire, without hat, 
clothes dusty, is pushed through doorway. Luke, a 
lanky, ill-dressed Southerner, following closes door. 
Revenue's hands are tied behind him.) 

You must excuse the boys for makin' a demonstration 
over you, Mr. Revenue, but you see they don't come across 
you fellers very frequent, and they alias gits excited. 

Revenue. I appreciate that I 'm welcome. 

Luke. Deed you is, and I 'm just agoin' to untie your 
hands long nuff fer you to take a sociable drink. (Goes to 
stranger, feels in all pockets for weapons.) Reckon yer 
travelin ' peaceable. ( Unties hands. ) Won 't yer sit down ? 

Revenue. (Drawing over chair and sitting.) Thank 
you. (Rubs wrists to get back circulation.) 

Luke. (Going over to cupboard and taking out jug.) 
Yessa, Mister, the boys ain't seen one o' you fellers fer near 
two years. Began to think you wus goin ' to neglect us. I 
wus hopin' you might be Jim Dunn. Have a drink? 

Revenue. (Starts slightly at mention of Jim Dunn.) 
No, thank you, your make is too strong for me. 

Luke. It hain't no luck to drink alone when you git 
company. Better have some. 

Revenue. Very well, my friend, I suffer willingly. 
(Drinks a little and chokes.) 

Luke. (Draining cup.) I reckon ye all don't like the 
flavor of liquor that hain't been stamped. 

Revenue. It 's not so bad. 






Material for Interpretation 365 

Luke. The last Revenue that sit in that chair got drunk 
on my make. 

Revenue. That would n 't be difficult. 

Luke. No, but it wuz awkward. 

Revenue. Why ? 

Luke. I had to wait till he sobered up before I give him 
his ticket. I did n't feel like sendin' him to Heaven drunk. 
He 'd a found it awkward climbin' that golden ladder. 

Revenue. Thoughtful executioner. 

Luke. So you see mebbe you kin delay things a little by 
dally in ' with the licker. 

Revenue. {Picking up cup, getting it as far as his lips, 
slowly puts it down. ) The price is too great. 

Luke. I 'm mighty sorry you ain't Jim Dunn. But I 
reckon you ain't. You don't answer his likeness. 

Revenue. Who 's Jim Dunn ? 

Luke. You ought to know who Jim Dunn is. He 's just 
about the worst one of your revenue critters that ever hit 
these parts. He 's got four of the boys in jail. We got a 
little reception all ready for him. See that? {Pointing 
to sketch on back wall.) 

Revenue. {Looking at sketch.) Yes. 

Luke. That 's Jim Dunn. 

Revenue. {Rising, examining picture.) Doesn't look 
much like anyone. 

Luke. Well, that 's what Jim Dunn '11 look like when 
we git 'im. I 'm mighty sorry you hain't Jim Dunn. 

Revenue. I 'm sorry to disappoint you. 

Luke. {Turning to cupboard and filling pipe.) Oh, 
it 's all right. I reckon one Revenue 's about as good as 
another, after all. 

Revenue. Are you sure I 'm a revenue officer? 

Luke. {Rising.) Well, since we ketched ye climbin' 



S66 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

trees an' snoopin' round the stills, I reckon we won't take 
no chances that yon hain't. 

Revenue. Oh. 

Luke. Say, mebbe you 'd like a seggar. Here 's one I 
been savin' fer quite a spell back, thinkin' mebbe I 'd have 
company some day. {Brings out dried-up cigar, hands it 
to him.) 

Revenue. No, thank you. 

Luke. It hain 't no luck to smoke alone when ye got com- 
pany. (Striking match and holding it to Revenue.) Ye 
better smoke. 

(Revenue bites off end and mouth is filled with dust, 
spits out dust. Luke holds match to cigar. ,With 
difficulty Revenue lights it.) 
That 's as good a five-cent cigar as ye can git in Henderson. 

Revenue. (After tw\o puffs, makes wry face, throws 
cigar on table.) You make death very easy, Mister. 

Luke. Luke 's my name. Yer kin call me Luke. Make 
you feel as though you had a friend near you at the end — 
Luke Hazy. 

Revenue. (Starting as though interested, rising.) Not 
the Luke Hazy that cleaned out the Crosby family ? 

Luke. (Startled.) How 'd you hear about it? 

Revenue. Hear about it ? Why, your name 's been in 
every newspaper in the United States. Every time you 
killed another Crosby the whole feud was told all over 
again. Why, I 've seen your picture in the papers twenty 
times. 

Luke. Hain't never had one took. 

Revenue. That don't stop them from printing it. 
Don't you ever read the newspapers? 

Luke. Me read? I hain't read nothin' fer thirty years. 
Reckon I could n 't read two lines in a hour. 



Material for Interpretation 367 

Revenue. You Ve missed a lot of information about 
yourself. 

Luke. How many Crosbys did they say I killed ? 

Revenue. I think the last report said you had just re- 
moved the twelfth. 

Luke. It 's a lie ! I only killed six . . . that 's all they 
wuz — growed up. I 'm a-waitin' fer one now that 's only 
thirteen. 

Revenue. When '11 he be ripe ? 

Luke. Jes' as soon as he comes a-lookin' fer me. 

Revenue. Will he come? 

Luke. He '11 come if he 's a Crosby. 

Revenue. A brave family ? 

Luke. They don't make 'em any braver — they 'd be 
first-rate folks if they wuz n't Crosbys. 

Revenue. If you feel that way why did you start fight- 
ing them ? 

Luke. I never started no fight. My granddad had some 
misunderstandin' with their granddad. I don't know jes' 
what it wuz about, but I reckon my granddad wuz right, and 
I '11 see it through. 

Revenue. You must think a lot of your* grandfather. 

Luke. Never seen 'im, but it ain't no luck goin' agin 
yer own kin. Won't ye have a drink? 

Revenue. No — no — thank you. 

Luke. Well, Mr. Revenue, I reckon we might as well 
have this over. 

Revenue. What ? 

Luke. Well, you won't get drunk, and I can't be put to 
the trouble o' havin' somebody guard you. 

Revenue. That '11 not be necessary. 

Luke. Oh, I know yer like this yer place now, but this 
evenin' you might take it into yer head to walk out. 



368 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Revenue. I '11 not walk out unless you make me. 

Luke. 'T ain't like I 11 let yer, but I wouldn't blame 
yer none if yu tried. 

Revenue. But I '11 not. 

Luke. {Rising,) Say, Mistah Revenue, I wonder if you 
know what you 're up against ? 

Revenue. What do you mean ? 

Luke. I mean I gotta kill you. 

Revenue. {Rising, pauses,) Well, that lets me out. 

Luke. What do yu mean ? 

Revenue. I mean that I 've been trying to commit sui- 
cide for the last two months, but I have n 't had the nerve. 

Luke. {Startled.) Suicide? 

Revenue. Yes. Now that you 're willing to kill me, the 
problem is solved. 

Luke. Why, what d ' ye want to commit suicide f er ? 

Revenue. I just want to stop living, that 's all. 

Luke. Well, yu must have a reason. 

Revenue. No .special reason — I find life dull and I 'd 
like to get out of it. 

Luke. Dull? 

Revenue. Yes — I hate to go to bed — I hate to get up — 
I don't care for food — I can't drink liquor — I find people 
either malicious or dull — I see by the fate of my acquaint- 
ances, both men and women, that love is a farce. I have 
seen fame and preference come to those who least deserve 
them, while the whole world kicked and cuffed the worthy 
ones. The craftiest schemer gets the most money and glory, 
while the fair-minded dealer is humiliated in the bank- 
ruptcy court. In the name of the law every crime is com- 
mitted; in the name of religion every vice is indulged; in 
the name of education greatest ignorance is rampant. 



Material for Interpretation 369 

Luke. I don 't git all of that, but I reckon you 're some 
put out. 

Revenue. I am. The world \s a failure . . . what 's 
more, it 's a farce. I don't like it but I can't change it, 
so I 'm just aching for a chance to get out of it. . . . 
{Approaching Luke.) And you, my dear friend, are going 
to present me the opportunity. 

Luke. Yes, I reckon you '11 get your wish now. 

Revenue. Good ... if you only knew how I 've tried to 
get killed. 

Luke. Well, why did n 't you kill yerself ? 

Revenue. I was afraid. 

Luke. Afreed o' what — hurtin' yourself? 

Revenue. No, afraid of the consequences. 

Luke. Whad d ' ye mean ? 

Revenue. Do you believe in another life after this one ? 

Luke. I kan't say ez I ever give it much thought. 

Revenue. Well, don't — because if you do you '11 never 
kill another Crosby . . . not even a revenue officer. 

Luke. 'T ain't that bad, is it ? 

Revenue. Worse. Twenty times I 've had a revolver to 
my head — crazy to die — and then as my finger pressed the 
trigger I 'd get a terrible dread — a dread that I was plung- 
ing into worse terrors than this world ever knew. If killing 
were the end it w 7 ould be easy, but what if it 's only the 
beginning of something worse? 

Luke. Well you gotta take some chances. 

Revenue. I '11 not take that one. You know, Mr. Luke, 
life was given to us by someone who probably never intended 
that we should take it, and that someone has something 
ready for people who destroy his property. That 's what 
frightens me. 



370 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Luke. You do too much worryin ' to be a regular suicide. 

Revenue. Yes I do. That 's why I changed my plan. 

Luke. What plan? * 

Revenue. My plan for dying. 

Luke. Oh, then you give up the idea? 

Revenue. No, indeed — I 'm still determined to die, but 
I 'm going to make someone else responsible. 

Luke. Oh — so you hain't willing to pay fer yer own 
funeral music ? 

Revenue. No, sir — I '11. furnish the passenger, but 
someone else must buy the ticket. You see when I finally 
decided I 'd be killed I immediately exposed myself to every 
danger I knew. 

Luke. How ? 

Revenue. In a thousand ways. . . . {Pause.) Did you 
ever see an automobile ? 

Luke. No. 

Revenue. They go faster than steam engines, and they 
don't stay on tracks. Did you ever hear of Fifth Avenue, 
New York? 

Luke. No. 

Revenue. Fifth Avenue is jammed with automobiles, 
eight deep all day long. People being killed every day. I 
crossed Fifth Avenue a thousand times a day, every day for 
weeks, never once trying to get out of the way, and always 
praying I 'd be hit. 

Luke. And could n 't yu git hit ? 

Revenue. {In disgust.) No. Automobiles only hit 
people who try to get out of the way. {Pause.) When 
that failed I frequented the lowest dives on the Bowery, 
flashing a roll of money and wearing diamonds, hoping 
they 'd kill me for them. They stole the money and dia- 
monds, but never touched me. 



Material for Interpretation 371 

Luke. Could n't you pick a fight ? 

Revenue. I 'm coming to that. You know up North 
they believe that a man can be killed in the South for call- 
ing another man a liar. 

Luke. That 's right. 

Revenue. It is, is it ? Well, I 've called men liars from 
Washington to Atlanta, and I 'm here to tell you about it. 

Luke. They must a took pity en ye. 

Revenue. Do you know Two Gun Jake that keeps the 
dive down in Henderson? 

Luke. I should think I do. . . . Jake 's killed enough of 
'em. 

Revenue. He 's a bad man, ain't he? 

Luke. He 's no trifler. 

Revenue. I wound up in Jake's place two nights ago, 
pretending to be drunk. Jake was cursing niggers. 

Luke. He 's alius doin' that. 

Revenue. So I elbowed my way up to the bar and an- 
nounced that I was an expert in the discovery of nigger 
blood . . . could tell a nigger who was 63-64ths white. 

Luke. Ye kin ? 

Revenue. No, I can't, but I made them believe it. I 
then offered to look them over and tell them if they had any 
nigger blood in them. A few of them sneaked away, but 
the rest stood for it. I passed them all until I got to Two 
Gun Jake. I examined his eyeballs, looked at his finger- 
nails, and said, "You 're a nigger." 

Luke. An' what did Jake do? 

Revenue. He turned pale, took me into the back room, 
he said: "Honest to God, Mister, can ye see nigger blood 
in me?" I said: "Yes." "There's no mistake about 
it ? " " Not a bit, " I answered. ' ' Good God, ' ' he said, ' ' I 
always suspected it." Then he pulled out his gun. . . . 



372 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Luke. Eh ... eh? 
Revenue. And shot himself. 
Luke. Jake shot hisself ! ... is he dead ? 
Revenue. I don't know — I was too disgusted to wait. 
I wandered around until I thought of you moonshiners . . . 
scrambled around in the mountains until I found your still. 
I sat on it and waited until you boys showed up, and here I 
am, and you 're going to kill me. 

Luke. {Pause.) Ah, so ye want us to do yer killin' fer 
ye, do ye ? 

Revenue. You 're my last hope. If I fail this time I 
may as well give it up. 

Luke. {Takes out revolver, turns sidewise and secretly 
removes cartridges from chamber. Rises.) What wuz 
that noise ? 

{Lays revolver on table and steps outside of door. 
Revenue looks at revolver apparently without in- 
terest.) 
(Luke cautiously enters doorway and expresses sur- 
prise at seeing Revenue making no attempt to secure 
revolver. Feigning excitement goes to table, picks 
up gun.) 
Luke. I reckon I 'm gettin' careless, leavin' a gun 
layin' around here that-a-way. Didn't you see it? 
Revenue. Yes. 

Luke. Well, why did n 't ye grab it ? 
Revenue. What for ? 
Luke. To git the drop on me. 

Revenue. Can't you understand what I 've been tell- 
ing you, Mister ? I don 't want the drop on you. 

Luke. Well, doggone if I don't believe yer tellin' me 
the truth. Thought I 'd just see what ye 'd do. Ye see I 
emptied it first. (Opens up gun.) 



Material for Interpretation $7S 

Revenue. That was n 't necessary. 

Luke. Well, I reckon ye better git along out o' here, 
Mister. 

Revenue. You don 't mean you 're weakening ? 

Luke. I ain't got no call to do your killin' fer you. If 
ye hain't sport enough to do it yerself, I reckon ye kin go 
on sufferin'. 

Revenue. But I told you why I don't want to do it. 
One murder more or less means nothing to you. You don't 
care anything about the hereafter. 

Luke. Mebbe I don't, but there ain't no use my takin' 
any more chances than I have to. And what 's more, 
Mister, from what you been tellin' me I reckon there 's a 
charm on you, and I ain't go in' to take no chances goin' 
agin charms. 

Revenue. So you 're going to go back on me? 

Luke. Yes sirree. 

Revenue. Well, maybe some of the other boys will be 
willing. I '11 wait till they come. 

Luke. The other boys ain't goin' to see you. You 're 
a-leavin ' this yer place right now — now ! It won 't do no 
good. You may as well go peaceable, ye ain't got no right 
to expect us to bear yer burdens. 

Revenue. Damn it all ! I 've spoiled it again. 

Luke. I reckon you better make up yer mind to go on 
livin'. 

Revenue. That looks like the only way out. 

Luke. Come on, I '11 let you ride my horse to town. 
It 's the only one we got, so yu can leave it at Two Gun 
Jake's, and one o' the boys '11 go git it, or I reckon I 11 go 
over myself and see if Jake made a job of it. 

Revenue. I suppose it 's no use arguing with you. 

Luke. Not a bit. Come on, you. 



374* Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Revenue. Well, I 'd like to leave my address so if you 
ever come to New York you can look me up. 

Luke. 'T ain't likely I '11 ever come to New York. 
Revenue. Well, I '11 leave it anyhow. Have you a piece 
of paper? 

Luke. Paper what you write on? Never had none, 
Mister. 

Revenue. (Looking about room, sees Jim Dunn's pic- 
ture on wall, goes to it, takes it down.) If you don't mind, 
I '11 put it on the back of Jim Dunn's picture. (Placing 
picture on table, begins to print.) I '11 print it for you, so 
it '11 be easy to read. My address is here, so if you change 
your mind you can send for me. 
Luke. 'T ain't likely — come on. 

(Both go to doorway — Luke extends hand, Revenue 
takes it.) 
Good-bye, Mister— cheer up . . . there 's the horse. 
Revenue. Good-bye. (Shaking Luke's hand.) 
Luke. Don't be so glum, Mister. Lemme hear you laff 
jist onct before yu go. 

(Revenue begins to laugh weakly.) 
Aw, come on, laff out with it hearty. 

(Revenue laughs louder.) 
Heartier yit. 

(Revenue is now shouting his laughter, and is heard 
laughing until hoof beats of his horse die down in the 
distance.) 
(Luke watches for a moment, then returns to table — 
takes a drink — picks up picture — turns it around 
several times before getting it right — then begins to 
study. In attempting to make out the name he 
slowly traces in the air with his index finger a capital 
"J" — then mutters "J-J-J," then describes a letter 



Material for Interpretation 375 

"V— mutters "III," then a letter "M"— mutter- 
ing "M-M-M, J-I-M—J-I-M—JIM." In the same 
way describes and mutters D-U-N-N.) 
Luke. Jim Dunn! By God! 

(He rushes to corner, grabs shot-gun, runs to doorway, 
raises gun in direction stranger has gone — looks in- 
tently — then slowly lets gun fall to his side, and 
scans the distance with his hand shadowing his eyes 
— steps inside — slowly puts gun in corner — seats him- 
self at table.) 
Jim Dunn ! — and he begged me to kill 'im ! ! 

Arthur Hopkins. 

^ MINUET 1 
The Marquis The Marchioness The Gaoler 

The Marquis 

(Reading) 

"Is there an after-life, a deathless soul, 
A heaven, to which to aspire as to a goal ? 
Who shall decide what nobody shall know ? 
Science is dumb ; Faith has no proofs to show. 
Men will dispute, as autumn leaves will rustle: 
The soul is an idea ; the heart, a muscle. ' ' 

(He leaves off reading.) 
Well said, Voltaire ! This philosophic doubt 
Has ruled my life, and now shall lead me out ; 
'T is this has helped me to a mind serene 
While I await the gentle guillotine. 

(He closes the book and lays it aside.) 
What 's to be hoped for, what is to be dreaded, 
i All rights reserved. 



376 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

Whether I die in bed or be beheaded ? 

I Ve lived, I loved, enjoyed ; and here 's the end. 

I '11 meet my death as I should meet a friend ; 

Or, better, as a nobleman of France 

Salutes his mistress in a courtly dance. 

(He rises and walks to and fro, with his hands behind 
him.) 
I am alone;. no soul will sorrow for me; 
My enemies dread me ; and my friends — abhor me. 
For all I know, my wife — the ugly word — 
Is in Coblenz, attended by absurd 
Perfumed and mincing abbes. She and I, 
I 'm proud to say, lived as I mean to die. 

With never a trace of middle-class emotions, 
I went my way ; she followed her own notions. 
And when she hears I 'm dead, so fine her breed, 
She '11 arch her eyebrows, and exclaim, 
"Indeed?" 

(The door is flung open, and The Gaoler appears.) 



(Brutally.) 

Citizen ! 



(He sits.) 



The Gaoler 

The Marquis 
Joseph ? 

Is the tumbril here 1 
The Gaoler 



Not yet, aristocat; but have no fear. 
The widow never missed — 



Material for Interpretation 377 

The Marquis 

The widow? 

The Gaoler 

Aye, 



The guillotine. 



The Marquis 



(With a shrug.) 

The people 's wit ! 

The Gaoler 

I say, 
She never missed an assignation yet. 
One down, the other comes on ! She 11 not forget. 

The Marquis 
Yet she 's a woman ! Wonderful ! 

The Gaoler 

You seem 
As though you thought your doom was but a dream. 

(Roughly.) 
Aristocrat, you are to die ! 

The Marquis 

(Calmly.) 

How true ! 
And so are you, my friend, and so are you, 
Sooner or later. In your case, I think 
It will be sooner, owing to the drink. 



378 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The Gaoler 

{Coming at him threateningly.) 
You dare ! 

The Marquis 

{Warding him off with a delicate hand.) 
Oh, please, let 's have no vulgar quarrel : 
And I apologize for seeming moral. 
You Ve been so courteous as to lend your room 
In which to await my, as you call it, doom, 

{Handing him a coin.) 
Take my last louis, friend, and go away. 

The Gaoler 
I spit on it ! 

The Marquis 

And pocket it. Good day. 

The Gaoler 

{Pointing to the door.) 
I came to tell you that a woman 's there, 
Asking to see you. 

The Marquis 

What? 

The Gaoler 
She 's young and fair, 
And, judging by the richness of her dress, 
Some heretofore aristo, nothing less. 

The Marquis 

{With grave reproof.) 
All women are aristocrats by birth ; 
No old or ugly woman treads the earth. 



Material for Interpretation 379 

The Gaoler 
Ho! You should see my wife! 

The Marquis 
I should be proud. 

The Gaoler 
Shall I admit her? 

The Marquis 
Yes. 

The Gaoler 

It 's not allowed. 
Nevertheless — 

The Marquis 
(Handing him a jeweled snuff-box.) 
My snuff-box. From 

(Handsprings to his feet and kisses it.) 

The King! 

The Gaoler 
I spit on it. 

The Marquis 
(Deprecatingty.) 
You spit on everything. That 's low. 

The Gaoler 

The widow will spit on your head. 

(He stumps out, leaving the door open.) 

The Marquis 
(With disgust.) 
And that 's my equal ! Pah ! 



$80 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

(He picks up a hand-glass and arranges his habit, etc.) 
Why do I dread 
This meeting ? Who can be the fair 
Who ventures hither to this loathsome lair? 
The Duchess of Saint-Mair? A heart of ice. 
The Countess of Durance ? A cockatrice. 
The Marchioness of Beaurepaire? Alas! 
Her love and faith were brittle as this glass. 
The Lady of Bougency? 
(He laughs.) 

But she had 
Three other lovers, while she drove me mad. 
Not one would risk her head to say good-by 
To a discarded lover soon to die. 

(In the glass he is still holding he sees The Marchioness, 
who now appears in the doorway.) 

My wife ! 
(The Marchioness comes in, and the door swings to with 
a clang. She makes a magnificent and elaborate 
curtsy.) 



Marquis ! 



The Marchioness 



The Marquis 



(With an equally elaborate bow.) 

Ah ! Marchioness ! 



(Brightly.) 
Kindly escorted me 



The Marchioness 
Milord O'Connor 



Material for Interpretation 381 

The Marquis 
Oh, too much honor ! 

The Marchioness 
(Looking round the room, with a dainty sigh,) 
Ah, what a world, where gentlemen are treated 
Like vulgar criminals! 

The Marquis 
Won't you be seated? 

The Marchioness 
(Ceremoniously taking her seat,) 
I greatly fear I must cut short my visit ; 
Time is so precious nowadays. 

The Marquis 
(With a whimsical smile,) 

Ah, is it ? 
How did you hear that I must soon — go hence? 

The Marchioness 
A charming abbe told me in Coblenz. 

The Marquis 
(Leading her on.) 
What did he say ? 

The Marchioness 
I scarce gave heed, 
1 arched my brows, and exclaimed, " Indeed ? ,? 

The Marquis 
Ah, I y m distressed you chose to undertake 
A long and tiresome journey for my sake. 



382 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The Marchioness 

(Volubly.) 
Oh. I had charming company. Time passed away 
Quite quickly, thanks to ombre and piquet. 

(With a pretty pout.) 
I lost a deal of money. 

The Marquis 

My regrets. 
I Ve squandered my last coin. 

The Marchioness 

And then at Metz 
A charming man, an Irishman — such grace ! 
Such wit ! Such — 

The Marquis 

Never mind. 

The Marchioness 

Begged for a place 
Beside me in the coach. 

The Marquis 
His name? 

The Marchioness 
Milord 
O'Connor. 

The Marquis 

To be sure. He touched a chord? 

The Marchioness 
( Enthusiastically. ) 
Oh, yes ! 



Material for Interpretation 383 

The Marquis 



(Insiduously.) 



(Roguishly.) 



And you were kind ? 
The Marchioness 

To him or to you? 



The Marquis 
(With a polite protest.) 
Oh, dying men don 't count. 

The Marchioness 
(Thinking it over.) 

That 's very true. 

The Marquis 
No doubt he 's waiting for you now ? 

The Marchioness 
(Carelessly.) 

No doubt. 

The Marquis 
You must not strain his patience ! 't will wear out, 

(With great courtesy, but a dangerous gleam in his eyes.) 
And when you join him, tell him I regret 
I 'm not at liberty. We might have — met. 

The Marchioness 
You would have liked each other very much. 
Such conversation! Such high spirits! 
Such— 

The Marquis 
(Rises.) 
This prison is no place for you. Farewell ! 



384 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The Marchioness 
The room is ugly. I prefer my cell. 

The Marquis 

{Arrested as he is moving toward the door.) 
Your cell? 

The Marchioness 



(Matter of fact.) 




Of courset I am a 


prisoner, too. 


That 's what I came for. 




The Marquis 




What? 




The Marchioness 


(Very sirwgly.) 




To die with you. 






The Marquis 


To die with me ! 






The Marchioness 


(Rises.) 




A Beauelere could not fail. 




The Marquis 


But— 






The Marchioness 


Yes? 






The Marquis 




The guillotine! 




The Marchioness 



(Brushing it aside as of no consequence whatever.) 
A mere detail. 



Material for Interpretation S85 

The Marquis 
(Recovering.) 
Pardon me, Marchioness, but I confess 
You also made me show surprise. 

The Marchioness 

What less 
Did you expect of me? 

The Marquis 

We Ve lived apart 
So long, I had forgotten — 

The Marchioness 

I'da heart ? 
You had forgotten many things beside — 
The happy bridegroom and the happy bride. 
And so had I. At court the life we lead 
Makes love a frivolous pastime. 

The Marquis 

And we need 
The shock of death to show us we are human. 

The Marchioness 

Marquis and Marchioness? No, man and woman. 
Once you were tender. 

The Marquis 
Once you were sincere. 

The Marchioness 
So long ago. 



386 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The Marquis 

So short a time. 

The Marchioness 

Oh, dear! 
Our minds are like a potpourri at dusk, 
Breathing dead rosemary, lavender, and musk; 
Things half forgotten, silly things, sublime ; 
A faded ribbon, withered rose, a rhyme, 
A melody of old Provene, whose lilt 
Haunts us as in a dream, like amber, spilt 
God knows how long ago ! 

The Marquis 

Do you remember 
How first I wooed you by the glowing ember 
Of winter fires ? 

The Marchioness 

Ah, you were passionate then ! 

The Marquis 
I was the proudest, happiest of men. 

The Marchioness 
I, the most innocent of maids. 

The Marquis 

Alas! 
How the years change us as they come and pass ! 

The Marchioness 
{Very tenderly.) 
Do you remember, by the Rhone, 



Material for Interpretation 387 

The gray old castle on the hill, 

The brambled pathway to the mill? 
You plucked a rose. We were alone ; 
For cousins need no chaperone. 

How hot the days were, which the shrill 

Cicala's chirping seemed to fill: 
A treble to the millwheel's drone. 

Ah, me ! what happy days were those ! 

The Marquis 
Gone, with the perfume of the rose. 

The Marchioness 

Marquis, might we not yet atone, 
For all our errors, if we chose ? 

The Marquis 
But — Doris, all the perfume 's gone. 

The Marchioness 

{Producing a withered rose from her hosom.) 
But — Amadis, I Ve kept the rose ! 

The Marquis 
You Ve kept the rose ! But will it bloom again ? 

The Marchioness 
Perhaps in heaven. 

The Marquis 

(With a shrug.) 

Is there a heaven 1 



388 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

The Gaoler 

{Appearing at the door.) 

You twain 
Aristocrats, the tumbril waits! {He disappears.) 

The Marchioness 

{Swaying a moment.) 

Ah, me! 

The Marquis 

{Eagerly.) 
Is there a heaven, Doris ? 

The Marchioness 

{Recovering , smiles bravely, and holds out her hand.) 

Come and see. 
{As the Marquis takes her hand and they move to go 
out.) 

The curtain falls. 
Louis N. Parker. 






PAET III 
DECLAMATOKY CONTESTS 

SECTION VII 

PROBLEMS IN THE PRESENT CONDUCT OF 
DECLAMATORY CONTESTS 



SECTION VII 

PROBLEMS IN THE PRESENT CONDUCT 
OF DECLAMATORY CONTESTS 

PROFESSOR DOWDEN'S remarks in his"New Studies 
in Literature, ' ' as to what may constitute desirable ex- 
pressive reading, though well known will bear repeating. 
He says: "Few persons nowadays seem to feel how pow- 
erful an instrument of culture may be found in modest, 
intelligent, and sympathetic reading aloud. A mongrel 
something which, at least with the inferior adepts, is neither 
good reading nor veritable acting, but which sets agape the 
half-educated with the wonder of its airs and attitudiniz- 
ings, its pseudo-heroics and pseudo-pathos, has usurped the 
place of the true art of reading aloud, and has made the 
word recitation a terror to quiet folk who are content with 
intelligence and refinement. The reading which we should 
desire to cultivate is intelligent reading, that is, it should 
express the meaning of each passage clearly; sympathetic 
reading, that is, it should convey the feeling delicately 
(namely suggestively) ; musical reading, that is, it should 
move in accord with the melody and harmony of what is 
read be it verse or prose/' 

With the regular advent of the speaking contest, in inter- 
pretative form, we are faced each year with many of the 
evils which Professor Dowden enumerates. While the ac- 
tivity will no doubt be bettered in many places, there will 

391 



392 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

be far too many schools still engaged in the old artificial 
trivialities. I am sure that many a teacher of English, 
as well as other teachers, who are called upon to " train" 
the contestants, rebels, inwardly at least, at much if not 
all included in the entire process. They should. It is 
time that all educators took into careful consideration the 
entire matter of ' ' declamatory contests. ' ' If the following 
discussion and suggestions serve to assist, in any way, the 
betterment of these contests, the end for which the author 
has written will be served. 

The work being done in many schools under the name of 
expression is done almost entirely for the contests in which 
the trained and coached declaimers are to appear. Such 
training and coaching addressed to a selected few, pre- 
sumably already gifted with a special ' ' talent, ' ' constitutes 
practically all that is being done in the field of develop- 
ment through personal expression for the pupils committed 
to the care of the schools. Declamation-contest seems to be 
a one idea. Possibly some of the faults of declamation 
might be obviated if it could be separated from the con- 
test. This seems unlikely to occur. Yet, here is a medium 
of speech activity big with educational possibilities, given 
over almost entirely to an extra-curricular sphere, a coached 
sphere, and handled, to an alarming extent, with apparently 
no pedagogical consideration. 

We are told that the declaimers, a selected few, gain self- 
confidence, ease, and poise, sometimes even grace is added 
to the list. Great stress is given to the fact that the mem- 
ory is trained. This point will bear long and careful con- 
sideration. To forget is a crime, punishable with loss of 
place or points. Few do forget, a word, a gesture, an in- 
flection, a position, a pause, a turn of the head or even eyes, 
or any other minute detail which they have been crammed 



Declamatory Contests 393 

to remember. One cannot but be impressed, upon the 
appearance of the declaimers, with the fact that they are 
full of remembrances. The skill with which they deliver 
themselves of these memories, endeavoring faithfully to act 
as if the rendition were not memorized, viewed as an educa- 
tional activity, is one of the most astounding things about 
the whole performance. Perhaps the spirit of "win at any 
cost" too often allowed, sometimes even encouraged, giving 
rise to certain methods of training or coaching, is largely 
to blame for results seen. In any case, I believe there can 
be little argument but that the qualities, estimable indeed, 
alleged to result from declaiming, need, in every case, to 
have spontaneous activity and self-expression if they are 
to become truly operative in the individual. Spontaneous 
activity of mind, feeling, imagination, voice, action, or even 
memory, cannot come through the present coached perform- 
ance of the declaimer. As for the advantage of memory 
training urged for declamation, it is, as I have already indi- 
cated, of the most mechanical type. Even at its best there 
is doubt in my own mind as to the exact amount of value 
received. Educational psychologists now assure us that 
there is no proof that memory power trained in one depart- 
ment can be made available in another. To my mind one 
of the elements in our work, as teachers in the field of speech, 
which needs careful consideration and discussion is the 
place, importance, and amount, of memory work we should 
require. The entire educational curriculum calls for far 
too much memory work. Initial mental activity, training 
in concentration, and quick responses to sequence of thought 
and emotion, elements vitally necessary to the development 
of the individual, are not developed and trained as they 
should be. Extemporaneous speaking and expressive or in- 
terpretative oral reading have possibilities in these direc- 



394 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

tions, declamation few if any. An excellent article, "The 
Curse of Memory," by W. A. Neilson, President of Smith 
College, appeared in the "English Journal' ' for February, 
1917. It offers many valuable suggestions. 

Before discussing declamatory contests it will be neces- 
sary to define the word ' ' declamatory. ' ' As generally used 
in the present contest system, it indicates a contest in 
which only girls participate. It is almost unheard of that 
any boy should declaim anything but material in speech 
form, hence there is another contest termed the "orator- 
ical." Mr. Shurter, of the University of Texas, has the 
following to say : 

A declamation is a set speech of a more or less serious nature 
intended for delivery from memory in public. Usage has virtually 
made the word declamation to connote a cutting from an oration 
written and spoken originally by some person other than the one 
who is declaiming the selection. It is impossible to' mark the exact 
dividing lines between an oration, a declamation, and a reading. 
You cannot place your finger on a geometric line and say, "This 
marks the end of declamation and the beginning of reading and 
beyond this point is oration" Many selections lie in that twilight 
zone where characteristic marks are imaginary. Whether a selec- 
tion is a reading or a declamation, then, depends on the manner 
of the delivery and the spirit of the piece. Selections that are chosen 
for purposes of mere entertainment, "funny" pieces, dramatic read- 
ings, dialogue, impersonations, etc., are not considered declamations. 
Keep in mind that a declamation should be prevailingly serious in 
tone and delivered for the purpose of convincing or persuading an 
audience of certain ideas or truths. 

The dictionary definitions of the words "declaim," "de- 
clamatory," and "declamation" are extremely clear. To 
declaim is "to recite a speech, poem, etc., in public as an 
elocutionary exercise." This then becomes a "declama- 
tion." To recite is "to repeat before an audience some- 
thing prepared and committed to memory." Prom these 
definitions there would seem no conceivable reason for two 



Declamatory Contests 395 

contests captioned as above. All material in both, as at 
present conducted, is recited in public as an elocutionary 
exercise. Something prepared and committed to memory 
is repeated before an audience. The only differences then, 
between the two would seem to be arbitrary ones: the nature 
of the material declaimed, speeches for the one and gen- 
eral literature for the other, and the limiting of the con- 
testants, very largely, girls to the general literature and 
boys to the speeches. 

In general the " oratorical' ' contest gives the better re- 
sults. There are reasons for this which have nothing to 
do with the abilities of the contestants. There is more 
agreement among teachers of public speaking with regard 
to an acceptable form of delivery for speeches than for in- 
terpretative work. There are more people capable of giv- 
ing approximately wise suggestion on the choice of speech 
material, and upon the delivery of the same. There is a 
better choice of material in this form, though this should 
not be true as the body of literature capable of interpreta- 
tion is vast in comparison. 

It is upon the contest which makes use of general litera- 
ture outside speech forms that I shall offer suggestions, but 
what follows applies in many cases equally well to the con- 
test using speech material. In the speeches chosen the con- 
tent should be largely in the experience of the speakers 
and of as timely a nature as possible. Great speeches of 
the long ago are not necessarily wise choices. The delivery 
should be direct, conversational in form, and as sincere 
as possible. In passing I may say I do not approve of 
either contest, as too many elements of artificiality are in- 
troduced in any case. I would have reading contests and 
extemporaneous speech or discussion contests. Boys and 
girls should participate as inclined or encouraged to take 



396 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

up the line most to their advantage as individuals. I would 
abolish the "coaching" and replace it with constructive 
teaching. 

I am repeatedly asked to make suggestions upon material 
for these contests, but before doing so, some discussion of 
the problems involved in the present conduct of declama- 
tory contests is necessary. These problems may be\stated 
as follows: (1) The aims of the contest; (2) The methods 
of choosing the contestants; (3) The methods of preparing 
the contestants; (4) The methods of judging the contests. 

Of the aims, let it be said that they are as a whole en- 
tirely too low to take advantage of the larger opportunities 
which the contest might and should offer. One of the most 
pernicious things is the "win at any cost" spirit which is 
far too prevalent in principal, "coach," and pupil. This 
very definitely affects the other three points mentioned 

above. 

i 

The methods of choosing contestants are too haphazard. 
Pupils who have acquired prominence through "private 
lessons in elocution" are chosen because of their "ability," 
while real ability goes undiscovered. One girl is devel- 
oped from year to year, sent into contest after contest, 
often with the same selection, until at last the school she 
represents is the proud winner of the state contest. 

That during her preparation, thus covering two or more 
years possibly, she is in a most impressionable period ; that 
she is dealing in her material with more or less extreme emo- 
tional states ; that these states too often coincide with some 
element in herself from which she were better freed; and 
that they may register to her absolute detriment are matters 
which seem never to enter the minds of instructors other- 
wise well informed in psychology, pedagogy, and mental de- 
velopment. Frequently we have a wistful girl "fitted" 



Declamatory Contests 397 

with a pathetic "piece" because she can do it, or a girl with 
certain aggressive tendencies has a chance to become a 
Shylock — with the result that for an indefinite period there- 
after certain abnormal qualities of voice are noticeable 
and must be eradicated if more extended work in expression 
is to be done. That a large part of the preparation is mere 
" coaching" — imitating the coach's interpretation of the 
subject-matter — and that the contestant reveals little orig- 
inality in mental, vocal, or bodily activity is too often the 
observation of any trained auditor. 

Much improvement could be made in all the points men- 
tioned and the entire results set at naught by incompetent 
judging. Indeed those who have realized the necessity for 
such reforms and have labored to establish them have been 
disheartened by the decisions rendered by incompetent 
judges. Until contests shall be judged by people who have 
some accurate knowledge of what constitutes good work in 
interpretative vocal expression, and are clearly instructed 
as to the method of procedure for the given contest, little 
can be hoped for in a constructive way in the conduct of 
declamatory contests. 

The following suggestions are offered in the hope that 
they may be of assistance in judging reading and declama- 
tion: 

I. In reading and declamation there are three distinct 
types of material which may be used, and the reader or the 
speaker should be judged upon the basis of his effectiveness 
in handling the kind of material with which he is dealing. 
These types are : 

A. Subject-matter which the reader or speaker may 
properly address directly to the audience; e.g., 
orations 



398 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

B. Subject-matter which is to be interpreted for the 
audience ; e.g., dramatic readings 

C. Subject-matter which is a combination of types A 
and B; e.g., stories in prose or verse 

When the reader or speaker is dealing with material of 
type A, he is under the supreme obligation to give the 
audience unmistakable evidences through his action and 
his voice of his lively sense of communication with them as 
he reads or speaks. He should be reading or speaking to 
the audience and not before them, at them, or over their 
heads. The ideal here is conversational directness. 

When the material is of type B, the reader or speaker 
reaches his audience indirectly. He is reading or speaking 
for the audience rather than to them, and his paramount 
object in this case should be to place all of his powers of 
expression at the service of his subject-matter in such a 
way as to interpret it as completely as possible for them. 

When the material is of type C, the reader or speaker, in 
the delivery of those portions which may properly be ad- 
dressed to the audience, should employ the mode of con- 
versational directness ; and in all other portions, he should 
employ the mode of type B, interpreting the material for 
the audience. 

II. The judge of a reading or declamation contest should 
analyze his impressions of each reader or speaker for evi- 
dences of the two underlying essentials of good reading and 
declamation which are: 

A. Grasp of subject-matter. — This implies that the 
reader or the speaker understands the thought-con- 
tent of his selection, and that he appreciates its emo- 
tional values ; that he is thinking clearly and feeling 
genuinely and spontaneously as he reads or speaks. 



Declamatory Contests 399 

B. Effective expression of subject-matter. — This im- 
plies a proper attitude toward the audience and a 
proficiency in the use of the bodily agents of 
expression. 

The foregoing essentials of satisfactory performance in 
reading and speaking manifest themselves to the critic in 
what he sees and in what he hears. The judge's task is to 
determine the contestant's relative merit in the two above- 
mentioned particulars upon the basis of inferences drawn 
from his visual and auditory impression of the several 
contestants. Every visual and auditory impression for 
which the contestants are responsible has some relevancy. 
The following are suggested as being of especial signifi- 
cance. 

VISUAL IMPRESSIONS 

1. Personal appearance 

2. Physical attitude and hearing 

Do carriage and position on the platform indicate proper 
consciousness of and consideration for, the audience? (In 
reading does he look at the audience as much as he should, 
unhampered by the text?) 

3. Facial expression 

Does it reveal thought and feeling in keeping with what 
the accompanying words denote and connote ? 

4. Other bodily movements 

Are they in harmony with and an aid to the vocal expres- 
sion, i.e., spontaneous, significant, not studied, awkward, 
and empty ? 

AUDITORY IMPRESSIONS 

1. Volume of voice 

Is it sufficient to assure audibility throughout! Does it 
change with the thought and feeling of the selection ? 



400 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

2. Enunciation and pronunciation 

Are the syllables and the words uttered with precision 
and distinctness? 
Are all words correctly pronounced? 

3. Rate of utterance 

Is it unpleasantly rapid or tiresomely slow? Does it 
vary with the character of the material uttered ? 

4. Pitch and inflection 

Is the average pitch too high or too slow ? Is the voice a 
monotone? Are the changes in pitch produced by, and in 
harmony with, variations in thought and feeling ? 

5. Quality of voice 

Is the voice, as sound dissociated from words, pleasing 
or irritating ? 

Is it rich, clear, mellow, full, and resonant, or is it poor, 
muffled, harsh, thin, and dull? 

Are the changes in quality produced by, and in harmony 
with, the variations in emotion ? 

6. Pausing and phrasing 

Do the length and frequency of the pauses reveal appre- 
ciation of the emotional content of the selection? 

Does the grouping of the words reveal clear thinking and 
a satisfactory grasp of the subject-matter, or does it betray 
lack of comprehension, and muddled mental processes ? 

Besides poor choice of material, improper spirit and 
training, and incompetent judging, certain other faults 
should be noted, such as the non-appearance of authors' 
names on the programs. Frequently the pupils do not 
know them. Frequently, it must be granted, they are not 
worth knowing, but that should be remedied. One princi- 
pal told me they were not printed for fear of undue influ- 
ence upon the judges! 

Again, the repeated use of the same selections from year 



Declamatory Contests 4*01 

to year cannot but be detrimental to the whole situation, 
especially as the chief cause for this reappearance is that 
the selections have "won" somewhere. Of course it is 
nearly always the case that the work is in the hands of an 
instructor who has neither the time nor the knowledge 
necessary to provide appropriate material. 

The situation will be bettered only when the work of 
public speaking, in all its forms, is placed in the hands of 
persons trained to understand and administer its educa- 
tional values. It may then be hoped that the work will be 
looked upon, not as an anomaly, but as a highly important 
part of the pupil's development. Most of these glaring 
evils would then be done away. 

CERTAIN REFORMS WHICH THE CONTEST SYSTEM DEMANDS 

1. That the work of public speaking as a whole be placed 
in the hands of a teacher properly trained to conduct the 
same. (Not usually one graduated from a special school of 
expression, often with no other preparation than high- 
school graduation, and frequently not that.) 

2. That material impossible in content, mental and 
spiritual as well as physical, be avoided. 

3. That a centralized board pass upon a list of material 
for each year 's use, avoiding duplication from year to year 
in a cycle of four years. 

4. That there be less "coaching" and more constructive 
suggestion. 

5. That material used be from standard, or at least re- 
putable, authors. 

6. That as a desirable part of the training, selection and 
arrangement of material be made, in some part, by the 
pupil. (Of course under suggestion of teacher.) 

7. That more attention should be given to the spirit of 



402 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

the selection, and less to the manner of the delivery, to the 
end that more naturalness and less artificiality may result. 

MATERIAL TO BE AVOIDED AS FAR AS POSSIBLE 

1. Broad comedy that degenerates into low comedy or 
burlesque. (A Half Hour on the Beach.) 

2. Selections demanding impersonative elements entirely 
beyond the attainments of the pupil. (Shylock.) 

3. Selections where the tragic element is utterly beyond 
the experience, comprehension, or imagination of the pupil, 
and where this element is sustained to too great length with- 
out transitions in mood which might offer relief and bal- 
ance. (Hagar, The Sign of the Cross.) 

4. Selections where the pathos is mere bathos. (The 
Soul of the Violin, Bobby Shaftoe.) 

5. Selections where death must be impersonated (Can it 
be?) and last words of dying person spoken. (The Swan 
Song.) 

6. "Cute" child pieces where the speaker attempts per- 
formances, vocal and physical, unlike any human prototype. 
(My Sister's Beau.) 

7. A large group of material utterly untrue in its theme, 
situation, psychology, or other elements which make its 
main appeal. (Inja.) 

Unless there be in the knowledge of those directing these 
contests and training the contestants some well-grounded 
understanding of the ends and aims of vocal expression as 
an educative matter, some definite appreciation of the im- 
portance to the individual of that individual's develop- 
ment through the medium of interpretative expression, and 
some concern as to the nature of the material which shall 
be used by the contestants during their formative periods, 



Declamatory Contests 403 

there can be little hope that any list of selections will be 
of even slight assistance. 

But to those who will grant some, if not all, of the fore- 
going contentions, and who desire reforms, a list of authors 
whose material offers helpful suggestions might be of real 
assistance. Books might be obtained in the town or school 
library, and pupils be encouraged to read them as a whole 
while deciding on a portion for use. The larger and de- 
sirable end so reached, as a part of the work of prepara- 
tion, surely no one can question. 

The list which is given is of course suggestive, not com- 
plete nor final. The points in favor of the material of 
these authors as usable for interpretative purposes are in 
part: (1) The English is good; (2) the themes are sane; 
(3) the emotions are normal; (4) the psychology is true; 
(5) the style is colloquial, often in dialogue form, and so 
the stories or chapters or scenes are easy of arrangement. 

From this list may be chosen all shades of emotions, and 
no program need be dull or uninteresting when material 
from these authors is used. It is of course obvious that 
time must be given to arrangement of material — and that, 
it must be reiterated, is most to be desired in the whole 
scheme. It is true also that a person especially prepared 
to administer the work of interpretation will be more com- 
petent to choose the most desirable portions of the books or 
stories, and better able to arrange the abridgment. Until 
such persons are available, however, the work should be 
done as well as may be by others. Better material is the 
least that may be asked by way of reform. 

Self-expression, the development of the individual, of his 
personality, is the trend of our education today. In this 
pedagogy and psychology are agreed. The acquiring of 



404 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 

facts will no longer suffice. No greater opportunity is 
offered the student for development of personality than 
through the medium of his vocal expression. "Of the va- 
rious forms of expression, verbal expression is the most 
important," says Professor Parker. In still a broader 
sense is this true, and I would substitute the word vocal 
for verbal, thus covering the various activities of person- 
ality possible through the revelation of the voice and body. 
But it will be appreciated at once that these activities must 
be spontaneous to be of true educational value, and no 
coached performance, with memorized instruction, fully 
digested, will ever be able to claim place in this field- 
Jane Addams says, "The person of the highest culture is 
the one who is able to put himself in the place of the great- 
est number of other persons." The activity of the sym- 
pathetic rendering of literature makes possible this culture. 
It may also claim as truly educational a wider knowledge of 
better literature and the spontaneous re-creation, partici- 
pation, and revelation of the same. To me, it seems impos- 
sible that any truly educational claims can be advanced for 
a very large proportion of the declaiming which is done 
every year in our contests. If this is true, is it not time 
that all -those who have any connection with the matter take 
council together, to the end that the most glaring evils 
may be done away with for all time ? 



SECTION VIII 
CONTEST BIBLIOGRAPHY 



SECTION VIII 
CONTEST BIBLIOGRAPHY 



LIST OF AUTHORS FOR CONTEST MATERIAL 



Eleanor Hallowell Abbott 

Thos. B. Aldrich 

James Lane Allen 

Mary R. S. Andrews 

Irving Bacheller 

Josephine Dodge Daskam 

Bacon 
James M. Barrie 
Kate Bosher 

Charles Townsend Brady 
Eleanor Hoyt Brainerd 
Alice Brown 
Henry C. Bunner 
Prances Hodgson Burnett 
Ellis Parker Butler 
George W. Cable 
Richard W. Child 
Winston Churchill 
Samuel L. Clemens 
Ralph Connor 
Marion Crawford 
Mary Stuart Cutting 
Richard Harding Davis 
Charles Dickens 
Thomas C. Dixon 



407 



Annie Hamilton Donnell 

Norman Duncan 

Edna Ferber 

George Pitch 

Sewell Ford 

John Fox, Jr. 

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman 

Zona Gale 

Roy Rolf e Gilson 

Sally P. McL. Greene 

Zane Grey 

Henry Sydnor Harrison 

Bret Harte 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 

Marion Hill 

Anthony Hope 

Washington Irving 

Sara Orne Jewett 

Owen Johnson 

Annie Fellows Johnston 

Mary Johnston 

Elizabeth Jordan 

Myra Kelly 

Rudyard Kipling 

Joseph C. Lincoln 



408 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 



Julie Lippman 
Frances Little 
Jack London 
John Luther Long 
Charles Battell Loomis 
George Madden Martin 
Ellen Montgomery 
L. M. Montgomery 
Thomas Nelson Page 
Gilbert Parker 
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 
Ernest Poole 
Gene Stratton-Porter 
Sydney Porter (0. Henry) 
Alice Hegan Rice 
Grace Richmond 
Edwin L. Sab in 



Annie Trumbull Slosson 
F. Hopkinson Smith 
Robert L. Stevenson 
Frank R. Stockton 
Booth Tarkington 
Juliet Wilbur Tompkins 
Henry van Dyke 
Marie Van Slyke 
Mary Heaton Vorse 
Anne Warner 
Anoto Watanna 
Jean Webster 
Edith Wharton 
William Allen White 
Kate Douglas Wiggin 
Leon Wilson 
Owen Wister 



DESCRIPTIVE LIST OF FOREGOING AUTHORS 

The following suggestions are made in the hope that 
they may still further assist in the choice of material from 
the list given. Authors below have been chosen more or 
less at random, and only one book is mentioned in many 
cases. This is not necessarily the best of that author's 
work, but serves to show what sort of material may be found 
in his work. 



AUTHOR 

Barrie, J. M. 



BOOKS 



Brady, C. T, 



NATURE OF MATERIAL 
OBTAINABLE 

"Sentimental Tommy" Humorous Child Imper- 
sonation 
"A Window in Humorous 

Thrums" 
"The Little Minister" Dramatic and Impersona- 
tions 
"Phroso" Drama 



Declamatory Contests 



409 



AUTHOR 

Brainerd, E. H. 
Butler, Ellis P. 
Churchill, Winston 



Connor, Ralph 
Duncan, Norman 



Fitch, George 
Fox. John, Jr. 



Freeman, 

Mary E. W. 
Hill, Marion 

Lincoln, J. C. 

Little, Frances 



London, Jack 
Loomis, Charles B. 



Tarkington, Booth 

Warner, Anne 
Watanna, Onoto 

Wister, Owen 

van Dyke, Henry 



BOOKS 

"Misdemeanors of 

Nancy" 
"Short Stories" 

"Bichard Carvel" 

"The Crossing" 

"The Crisis" 

"Coniston" 

"The Sky Pilot" 

"The Way of the Sea" 

"Dr. Luke of the Lab- 
rador*' 

"The Cruise of the 
Shining Light" 

"Siwash Stories" 

"The Trail of the 
Lonesome Pine" 

"The Little Shepherd 
of Kingdom Come" 

"A New England Nun" 
"The Pettison Twins" 

"Captain Eri" 

"Little Sister Snow" 
"The Lady of the 

Decoration" 
"The Call of the Wild" 
"Cheerful Americans" 

"Mishaps of Minerva" 

"Monsieur Beaucaire" 
"The Turmoil" 

"The Two Van Revels" 
"Mrs. Clegg" 
"A Japanese Nightin- 
gale" 
"The Virginian" 

"The Ruling Passion" 



NATURE OF MATERIAL 
OBTAINABLE 

Humorous Impersona- 
tions 

Humorous Child Imper- 
sonations 

Drama 

Drama 

Drama and Pathos 

Dramatic Impersonation 

Drama and Pathos 

All of Mr. Duncan's 
stories are full of dra- 
matic interest and 
pathos 

Humorous Impersonation 
Dramatic and Impersona- 
tion 
Dramatic and Impersona- 
tion 

Dramatic and Pathos 
Humorous Child Imper- 
sonations 
Humorous, Pathos, and 

Impersonation 
Humorous and Pathos 
Pathos and Impersona- 
tion 
Dramatic 

Humorous and Imperson- 
ation 
Humorous and Imperson- 
ation 
Dramatic Impersonation 
Dramatic, Pathos, Imper- 
sonation 
Dramatic Impersonation 
Humorous Impersonation 
Dramatic, Pathos, Imper- 
sonation 
Dramatic, Pathos, Imper- 
sonation, Humorous 
Dramatic Impersonation 



410 Modern Literature for Oral Interpretation 



AUTHOR 



BOOKS 



van Dyke, Henry 



"The Unknown Quan- 
tity" 



NATURE OF MATERIAL 
OBTAINABLE 

Humorous, Pathos, Dra- 
matic 



The complete works of 0. Henry, Twain, Gilbert Parker, 
and Alice Brown would furnish all shades of emotion, and 
material sufficient for a considerable time. 



BOOKS OF MATERIAL FOR INTERPRETATION 

There are few books containing desirable material for 
interpretation. Among the best may be named the fol- 
lowing : 

author 
Cumnock 
Morgan 



BOOKS 

1. "Choice Readings'' 

2. "Selected Readings" 

3. "Handbook of Best Read- 

ings" 

4. "The Humorous Speaker" 

5. "Readings from Litera- 

ture" 

6. "Prose Literature for 

Secondary Schools" 

7. "Winning Declamations" 

8. Modern American Prose 

Selections 



Clark 



Ha Heck and 

Barbour 
Ashmun 

Shurter 
Rees 



PUBLISHES 

McClurg 
McClurg 
Chas. Scribner Sons 



Hinds, Noble & Eldredge 
American Book Co. 

Houghton Mifflin Co. 

Lloyd Adams Noble 
Harcourt, Brace & Howe, 
New York 



BOOKS CONTAINING ORATORICAL MATERIAL ONLY 

The following books contain oratorical material only, and 
are of recent date. The selections are new. 



BOOKS 

1. "The Forum of De- 

mocracy" 

2. "American Ideals" 

3. "Democracy Today" 

4. "Patriotic Selections" 



AUTHOR PUBLISHER 

Watkins Allyn & Bacon, Boston 

Foerster Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston 

Gauss Scott, Foresman, Chicago 

Shurter Lloyd Adams Noble, New York 



ADDRESSES FOR TYPED MATERIAL FOR CONTEST USE 

Frances Walker, 2020 Sherman Ave., Evanaton, 111. 



Declamatory Contest 411 

H. S. Hollopeter, Westminster College, New Wilming- 
ton, Del. 

Irma W. Walker, Librarian, Biwabik, Minn. 

Edward P. Elliott, Needham, Mass. 

Ivan B. Hardin Co., 3806 Cottage Grove Ave., Des 
Moines, la. 

Columbia College of Expression, 3358 Michigan Ave., 
Chicago, 111. 

Univ. Wis. Extension Div. Depart., Debate and Public 
Discussion. Suggestive List of Addresses and Readings for 
Declamatory Contests. 

CONTEST REFERENCES 

READINGS IN THE QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF SPEECH EDUCATION 

Faculty Help in Intercollegiate Contests. Lane. Vol. 1. p. 9 

State Organization for Contests. Shurter. Vol. 1. p. 59 

The Oratorical Contest, A Shot in the Dark. Dennis. Vol. 2. p. 1 

Interschool Forensic Contests. Weaver. Vol. 2. p. 141 

Interschool Contests and Public Opinion. Highsaw. Vol. 2. p. 365 

Practical High School Speaking Contest. Vol. 3. p. 178 

Methods Used in Computing Scores. West. Vol. 5. p. 319 

READINGS IN THE ENGLISH JOURNAL 
The Function of the Speaking Contest. Davis. Vol. 4. p. 299 

TEXTS ON VOICE AND INTERPRETATION 

The following texts are among the best dealing with mat- 
ters of voice, bearing, reading, and interpretation : 

1. Interpretation of the Clark Row, Peterson & Co. 

Printed Page 

2. Handbook of Oral Read- Basset Houghton Mifflin Co. 

ing 

3. Mind and Voice Curry Expression Co., Boston 

4. American Speech Lewis Scott, Foresman Co. 

5. Natural Method of Muckey Chas. Scribner Sons 

Voice Production 



412 Modem Literature for Oral Interpretation 

6. How to Read Kerfoot Houghton Mifflin Co. 

7. Imagination and Dra- Curry Expression Co., Boston 

matic Instinct 



SUGGESTIONS FOR PROGRAMS 

(7 am well aware that the following list is an obvious one, 
and I would not offer it were it not that I have been 
urged to do so by many who have found it useful,) 

Recital under Any Author 

Old Ballad Recital 

Lyrics and Child Rhymes 

Stories of Western Life 

Klondike Stories 

Labrador Stories 

Southern Stories 

An Hour of Lyrics 

Scenes from Plays — Modern 

Scenes from Plays — Classic 

Nonsense Rhymes and Stories 

Irish Lyrics 

Irish Folk Poems and Stories 

Arrangements of Entire Books 

Arrangements of Entire Plays — Classic 

Arrangements of Entire Plays — Modern 

Kentucky Stories and Scenes 

Lecture Recitals from Any Author 

Miscellaneous Short Stories — Humor 

Miscellaneous Short Stories — Pathos 

Miscellaneous Short Stories — Drama 

Four of Shakespeare's Heroines— Viola, Rosalind, Juliet, 

Katherine 
Childhood Types (varied) 



Declamatory Contest 413 



Syrian Children 

Children of the Ghetto 

The Child Without a Childhood 

Our Alien Children 

The Heart of Childhood 

The World of Make Believe 

When the Heart Beats Young 

Southern Lights and Shadows 

Quaint Courtships 

Under the Sunset 

Different Girls 

The Mother Memory 

Fairy Lore, Myths and Legends 

Northern Skies 

The Simple Life (nature stories) 

Prose Allegories 

Commonplace Stories 

Pioneers 

Kindergarten Sketches 

Nature Beautiful 

Let 's Go Fishing 

Shakespeare's Fools 

Japanese Sketches (prose and poetry) 

College Stories 

Indian Lore 

Old Maidenhood 

The Man and His Dog 

The Heart of Pathos 

Husbands and Wives 

War (poetry and prose) 

War Plays (1 acts) 



THE END 



INDEX 

POETRY 

Angler's Reveille, The .... Henry VanDyke .... 23 

Apollo Troubadour Witter Bynner ... 58 

Ambition Berton Braley . . .61 

Birches Robert Frost 26 

Ballad of the Road, A . . . . Constance Mackay ... 78 

Ballad of Soulful Sam, The . . Robert Service .... 34 



Cat, the Raven, and the Public, 

The William Ellery Leonard . 

Duck and the Nightingale, The . William Ellery Leonard . 

Geese of Athabasca, The . ' . . William Ellery Leonard . 

Give Us Men J. G. Holland .... 

Gypsie's Road, The Dora Sigerson 

Greetings for Two . . . , . J. W. Foley .... 

Hill Fantasy Fannie Stearns Davis . 

House of Clouds, The .... Elizabeth Barret Browning 

Harbour, The ...... W. M. Letts .... 



If We Had the Time . . . . Richard Burton . 

In Blossom Time Ina Coolbrith . 

Indian Summer . . . . . . William Ellery Leonard 

Joy of the Hills, The .... Edwin Markham . 

Kids Witter Bynner 



56 

57 

44 

107 

99 

96 

80 

bl 

111 

86 
86 
76 

70 

30 



Little Room of Dreams, The . . Robert Underwood Johnson 41 

Ladies of Saint James's, The . . Austin Dobson 

Lincoln, the Man of the People . Edwin Markham . 

Little Land, Ihe Robert Louis Stevenson . 

Law of the Yukon, The . . . Robert W. Service 



Merman, The Alfred Tennyson . 

Mermaid, The Alfred Tennyson . 

Musical Instrument, A Elizabeth Barret Browning 

Mystic, The . Cale Young Rice . 

Monastery, The Marjorie Kinman 

415 



90 
92 
28 
62 

72 
74 
47 
94 
83 



416 Index 
Mysterious Doings Eugene Field 



Party at Crogan's, The .... Florence Boyce 

Path to the Woods ..... Madison Cawein . 

Pebble Song and Waterfall . . Alfred Kreymborg 

Questions Cale Young Rice . 

Quentin Roosevelt Leon Huhner . 



Symbol, The . v Richard Burton . 

Stoves and Sunshine .... Eugene Field . 

Souls Fannie Stearns Davis 

Sea Fairies, The Alfred Tennyson ' . 

Song Sparrow, The Henry VanDyke . 

Soft Day, A W. M. Letts . . 

Scared ........ W. M. Letts . . 



Theodore Roosevelt . 
Tipperary in the Spring 
Tim, an Irish Terrier . 



Leon Huhner . 
Dennis A. McCarthy 
W. M. Letts . . 



Winter Ride, A Amy Lowell . 

When the Train Comes In . . . Nixon W^aterman 

When Summer Boarders Come . Nixon Waterman 

Welcome to Alexandria . . . Alfred Tennyson . 

Water Fantasy Fannie Stearns Davis 

Wanderer's Litany, The . . . Arthur Stringer . 

With the Tide Edith Wharton . 



101 

106 
21 

49 

79 



104 
39 
91 
71 
37 
98 

103 

87 

69 

100 

98 
88 
32 
67 

102 
66 

109 



Artist's Secret, The 
Battle of Pankow, The 



PROSE 

Olive Schreiner . 
George W. Johnston 



Conversion of Johnny Harrington, 

The Elizabeth Jordan . . 

Extra Paper Zona Gale .... 

For Love of Mary Ellen . . . Eleanor JI. Brainerd . 

George Meredith J. M. Barrie . 



He Knew Lincoln Ida M. Tarbell 



307 
246 

141 
199 
215 
305 

168 



His Place in the Line . 

King of Boyville, The . 
Kirby Wedding, The . 



Marion Hill 119 

William Allen White . . 232 
Hayden Carruth .... 273 



Index 



417 



Legacy, The 

Lost Joy, The 

Little Change for Edward, A . 

Mystery of Night, The . 
Mr. Bush's Kindergarten Christ 
mas 



Nightingale and the Rose, The 

Old Jabe's Marital Experiments 

Princess Porcelain, The . 
Part Panther or Something . 
Pretensions of Charlotte, The 
Perfect One, The .... 



Spirit of Abraham Lincoln, The 
Selfish Giant, The ... . 



Unfinished Story, An . 
Underneath the High-Cut Vest 



J. J. Bell .... 
Olive Schreiner . 
Mary Stewart Cutting 

Hamilton Wright Mabie 

Hayden Carruth . 

Oscar Wilde . 

Thomas Nelson Page 

Clara Morris *. 
Booth Tarkington 
Walter Beach Hay . 
Laurence Housman . 

Woodrow Wilson . 
Oscar Wilde . 



Richard Harding Davis 
Edna Ferber . 



World's Sublimest Spectacle, The John Temple Graves . 

When Ma Rogers Broke Loose . Hicks Bates Broderson 

Whirligig of Life, The .... 0. Henry .... 

Where There 's a Will .... Ellis Parker Butler . 



264 
195 
174 

157 

225 

288 

152 

238 

278 
178 
242 

228 
115 

187 
295 

128 
129 
257 
159 



SPEECHES FROM SHAKESPEARE 



As You Like It (Jaques) 

Henry the Fourth (Hotspur) 

Henry the Fifth (King Henry) 

Julius Caesar (Brutus) . 

Much Ado About Nothing . . . (Benedick) 

Richard the Third (Queen Margaret) 

Romeo and Juliet (Mercutio) 

Winter's Tale, The (Hermione) 



316 
319 
311 
317 
318 
314 
315 
312 



SCENES AND ONE-ACT PLAYS 

Cyrano de Bergerac .... Edmund Rostand 

David Copperfield Charles Dickens . 

Erstwhile Susan Martin — DeForrest 

Minuet, A Louis N. Parker . 

Moonshine ... ... Arthur Hopkins . 

Rivals, The (Bob Acres and 

David) Richard B. Sheridan 



334 
337 
340 
375 
363 

35o 



418 



Index 



Rivals, The (Mrs. Malaprop and 

Captain Absolute) . 
Secrets of the Heart . 
School for Scandal, The 
Tu Quoque .... 
Universal Impulse, The 



Richard B. Sheridan . 


. 351 


Austin Dobson 


. 331 


Richard B. Sheridan . 


. 323 


Austin Dobson 


. 358 


Mrs. Wilson Woodrow 


. 360 



APPENDIX 



Problems in the Present Conduct of Declamatory Contests . .391 

Including Lists of Material 
Book Lists 
Texts 

Suggestions for Judging 
Contest Reference Bibliography 
Program Suggestions 412 



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